UC-NRLF 


B  3  us  mo 


WILLIAM  JON 


HENRY  MILNER  RIDEO 


WILLIAM    JONES 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Memorial  Bust  in  Bronze  by  Edwin  Willard  Deming  presented  to  the 
American  Museum  of  Natural  History  by  the  Sculptor 


WILLIAM   JONES 


INDIAN,    COWBOY,  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR, 

AND  ANTHROPOLOGIST 

IN  THE  FIELD 


BY 

HENRY  MILNER  RIDEOUT 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
MCMXTI 


s 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


June,  1912 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  A  MEMORY 1 

II  EARLY  YEARS 7 

III  COWBOY 17 

IV  HAMPTON  AND  ANDOVER 24 

V  SUMMER  WORK 36 

VI  HARVARD  1896-'97 39 

VII  HARVARD  1897-98 49 

VIII  HARVARD  1898-1900 61 

IX  LIFE  IN  NEW  YORK 72 

X  ON  THE  PLAINS 85 

XI  AMONG  NORTHERN  INDIANS 91 

XII  DOCTOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY 103 

XIII  THE  QUESTION  OF  MONEY 118 

XIV  THE  PHILIPPINES 127 

XV  IN  THE  WILDS 145 

XVI  DANGERS 191 

XVII  THE  LAST  DAY 202 

XVIII  CONCLUSION  .                                            .  210 


257763 


WILLIAM    JONES 


WILLIAM    JONES 
From  a  photograph  taken  in  Chicago,  1907 


WILLIAM  JONES 


A   MEMORY 

IN  the  spring  of  1900 — about  the  time  when 
the  grass  began  to  be  green  in  the  Yard  at 
Harvard  College,  and  the  leaves  of  horse- 
chestnuts  on  Cambridge  streets  to  appear 
as  knobs  like  the  tips  of  young  horns — two 
friends  lay  and  sunned  themselves  in  a  warm 
corner  between  brick  buildings.  They  were 
both  young,  both  poor,  and  by  all  rights 
should  have  been  thinking  of  their  uncertain 
futures.  Instead,  they  lay  talking  of  the 
past,  of  boyhood,  of  things  which  they  liked 
to  remember  and  tell  at  haphazard,  there  in 
the  spring  sunshine  on  the  new  grass.  Down 
a  street  leading  to  the  Charles,  people  were 
beating  carpets,  so  that,  in  the  pauses  of 
reminiscence,  echoes  galloped  up  like  the 
sound  of  flying  hoofs. 

One  of  these  two  men  had  a  career  already 
opening  before  him.  He  had  won  scholar 
ships,  as  a  junior  had  distinguished  himself 


WILLIAM    JONES 

in  the  study  of  anthropology,  and  now  could 
hope  that,  after  taking  his  A.  B.  in  the  ap 
proaching  June,  he  should  go  out  and  capture 
new  honors  in  science.  Close-knit,  spare,  and 
muscular  of  frame,  he  had  a  face  entirely 
different,  strikingly  different,  from  the  vague 
undergraduate  type, — a  rather  massive  face, 
already  full  of  character.  Experience  had 
written  on  it,  and  left  it  marked  with  kind 
liness,  decision,  and  that  clear,  untroubled 
thoughtfulness  which  comes  not  from  books, 
but  from  life  in  the  open.  His  eyes — brown 
as  his  hair,  with  specks  of  golden  light  in 
them — had  a  habit  of  looking  off  into  dis 
tance;  at  which  times  they  turned  impene 
trably  sad,  became  almost  the  eyes  of  an 
Indian,  and  gave  to  his  other  features  the 
look  of  stillness,  far-off  preoccupation,  and 
sober  dignity  that  is  seen  in  the  higher  type 
of  Indian  countenance.  But  when  they  came 
back  to  close  range,  or  suddenly  met  the  eyes 
of  a  friend,  they  lighted  up  again  with  pleasant 
humor.  The  upper  part  of  his  face  was  re 
flective,  melancholy;  the  lower,  full  of  de 
termination,  a  fighter's.  Any  stranger  would 
have  known  him,  at  sight,  to  be  gentle  and 
brave.  Active  in  body,  and  with  a  spirited, 
searching  mind,  full  of  quiet  fun  and  play- 

[2] 


A    MEMORY 

fulness — for  which  children  especially  loved 
him — he  gave  always  an  impression  of  force 
concealed,  animation  below  the  surface,  and 
courage  held  in  reserve.  This  appeared  also 
in  his  voice,  which  was  quiet  and  low,  and 
which  he  seldom  raised  above  ordinary  pitch, 
indoors  or  out. 

On  this  spring  morning  at  college,  he  did 
something  which  to  his  friend  had  all  the  in 
terest  of  rarity.  He  spoke  about  himself. 
To  reproduce  his  words  is  impossible,  as  it 
now  is  to  convey  the  charm  of  what  he  said, 
his  diffident  way  of  raising  and  lowering  his 
bright  brown  eyes,  of  plucking  up  a  grass- 
blade  with  sinewy  fingers,  or  waving  them  in 
a  gesture  very  slight  but  very  full  of  meaning. 

He  remembered — he  said — lying  rolled  in  a 
blanket  on  the  prairie,  when  he  was  a  little 
boy.  Something  woke  him,  something  wet 
and  cold  on  his  face.  There  was  a  gray  mist 
over  everything:  just  enough  to  show  him 
that  the  cold  object  was  a  pony's  nose,  and 
that  three  ponies,  side  by  side,  were  standing 
over  him  in  hesitation.  They  did  not  wish  to 
step  on  him,  and  had  halted.  The  riders  were 
three  Indians,  on  their  way  home  from  some 
place  where  they  had  been  drinking  all  night. 
The  man  in  the  center,  who  was  the  tallest 

[3] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

and  oldest,  was  also  the  most  drunk;  and  his 
two  companions,  leaning  from  either  side, 
propped  him  in  his  seat.  All  three  were  wail 
ing  together  some  long  lament,  the  mournful- 
lest  thing  ever  heard.  Their  ponies  sniffed  at 
the  little  figure  in  the  blanket,  decided  to  go 
roundabout  instead  of  over,  and  sheering  off, 
bore  away  the  three  tall  riders  through  the 
prairie  dawn.  It  was  like  having  seen  the 
ghosts  of  the  last  Indian  people. 

The  boy  in  the  blanket,  now  grown  up,  re 
called  many  other  things  about  his  native 
plains,  and  many  other  aspects — noble  and 
touching  aspects — of  the  people  he  was  born 
among.  He  went  on  to  tell  of  these:  of  the 
Indian's  ancient  customs;  the  Indian's  life  on 
the  prairie  in  the  old  days;  the  Indian's  lan 
guage  of  signs;  beautiful  myths,  colored  with 
camp-fire  poetry,  enacted  by  heroes,  by  cun 
ning  supernatural  beasts,  or  those  witch- 
driving  gods  whose  forked  stick  is  the  light 
ning;  beliefs  concerning  the  soul  and  the  Great 
Mystery.  He  told  other  things,  that  would 
make  any  honest  white  man  more  or  less  hot 
with  shame,  that  would  cause  one  at  least  to 
understand  how,  when  young  Indian  gradu 
ates  from  the  eastern  schools  returned  home 
again,  their  elders  might  laugh  sadly  at  the 

[4] 


A    MEMORY 

report  of  honest  white  men,  alive  and  actual, 
off  there.  But  all  these  matters  were  not  told 
for  the  sake  of  being  written  down. 

A  bell  rang.  The  spring  morning  had  be 
come  noon.  The  two  young  men  brought 
their  holiday  to  an  end,  rose,  and  went  else 
where. 

This  was  not  the  common  way  of  talking 
among  college  men,  who  (in  Cambridge  at 
least,  ten  years  ago)  considered  the  habit  of 
lounging  on  the  grass  as  a  kind  of  affectation; 
but  William  Jones  was  no  common  product 
of  the  colleges.  His  boyhood  resembled  the 
boyhood  of  Hiawatha  with  Nokomis;  his 
career  took  him,  as  on  an  abrupt  curve, 
through  some  of  the  highest  complexities  of 
our  civilization;  and  when  he  had  become  the 
chief  authority  in  Algonkin  lore — indispensa 
ble,  humanly  speaking,  to  the  work  he  had 
chosen — it  was  his  fate  to  be  sent  off  to  the 
far  corners  of  the  tropics,  there  to  meet  death 
suddenly  at  the  hands  of  savages. 

"I  was  born  out  of  doors,"  he  wrote,  from 
the  jungle.  "  Now  it  looks  as  if  I  shall  keep  on 
under  the  open  sky,  and  at  the  end  lie  down 
out  of  doors,  which,  of  course,  is  as  it  should 
be." 

He  would  not  have  desired  any  part  of  this 
[5] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

book  to  be  written.  His  friends,  now  scat 
tered  into  many  places,  have  thought  that 
the  story  of  his  short  life  should  be  recorded. 
Let  friendship,  therefore,  be  the  excuse  for 
this  account,  not  of  the  scientist  and  his 
achievement,  but  of  a  young  man  who,  every 
where  he  went — among  curators  of  museums, 
artists  in  their  studios,  plainsmen  in  their  sad 
dles,  or  Indians  in  wigwams — endeared  him 
self  to  many  persons  lastingly. 


[6] 


II 

EARLY  YEARS 

WILLIAM  JONES  was  born  March  28,  1871, 
on  the  Sauk  and  Fox  Reservation,  in  what 
was  then  Indian  Territory.  The  blood  in  his 
veins  was  a  mingling  of  Welsh  and  English 
elements,  with  a  strain  from  a  clan  of  Indian 
rulers. 

This,  briefly,  is  the  story  of  his  forebears. 
His  great-grandfather  came  from  Wales  to 
this  country,  time  enough  to  serve  under 
General  Washington  in  the  Revolution.  His 
grandfather,  William  Washington  Jones,  was 
born  in  Kentucky,  went  to  the  west  with 
Daniel  Boone,  entered  the  army,  fought  in 
the  Black  Hawk  war,  and  while  in  Iowa  mar 
ried  the  daughter  of  Wa  shi  ho  wa,  a  Fox 
chief.*  A  white-haired  man,  skilful  as  a 
hunter,  William  Washington  Jones  became 
well  known  as  a  scout,  in  the  days  when  the 
prairie  was  still  the  Far  West.  By  Katiqua, 

"The  Sauk  and  Fox  Indians,  then  and  later,  occupied  lands  in 
Iowa,  Nebraska,  and  Kansas.  By  the  Treaty  of  February  18,  1867, 
they  were  assigned  a  new  reservation  in  Indian  Territory,  to  which 
the  main  body  of  them  were  removed  in  and  after  November,  1870. 
Katiqua's  people  moved  from  Iowa  to  Kansas,  in  1845. 

[7] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

the  Fox  chief's  daughter,  he  had  three  chil 
dren,  of  whom  only  one  is  living, — a  son,  born 
in  Iowa  in  1844.  This  son — Bald  Eagle,  as 
his  mother's  clan  called  him — took  from  his 
father  the  name  of  Henry  Clay  Jones.  He 
remained  in  the  Indian  lodges  until  he  was  a 
youth  well  grown;  and  then,  washing  to  see 
something  of  the  world,  he  journeyed  out  into 
a  white  community,  went  to  school,  learned 
the  trade  of  blacksmith,  and  met  a  young 
English  girl,  Sarah  Penny.  "He  could  not 
gain  the  consent  of  her  parents  to  a  mar 
riage,"  writes  one  of  Mr.  Jones's  friends,  "un 
til  he  had  proved  himself  capable  of  caring 
for  her,  as  a  white  woman,  in  a  good  home. 
He  went  back  to  the  reservation,  opened  a 
blacksmith's  shop,  prepared  a  habitation  that 
seemed  to  meet  the  requirements,  and  then 
returned  in  less  than  two  years  for  his  reward. 
For  years  Mr.  Henry  Jones  has  been  a  leading 
member  of  the  Indian  council,  an  interpreter, 
a  blacksmith,  and  a  farmer,"  who  has  had 
the  respect  of  his  neighbors,  both  white  and 
Indian.  His  young  bride,  when  brought  to 
the  new-built  house,  may  well  have  found  her 
life  strangely  transplanted  and  transformed, 
beyond  even  the  lot  of  brides.  "But  her 
years  were  few,"  our  informant  tells  us. 

[8] 


EARLY    YEARS 

"When  her  first  child  was  a  year  old,  she  died, 
leaving  her  little  son  William,  or  Willie  as  she 
called  him,  to  the  care  of  his  Indian  grand 
mother." 

In  a  letter  written  at  Harvard  College  on 
his  birthday,  William  Jones  has  recorded 
the  following  memory.  The  passage  would 
seem  to  have  an  added  meaning,  an  after- 
significance,  from  the  fact  that  death  came 
to  him  also  in  the  spring,  though  in  a  country 
where  there  is  no  return  of  our  kindly  seasons, 
nor  division  of  days  except  by  sunlight  and 
darkness,  nor  any  memory  of  things  gone  by. 

"My  dear  old  grandmother  used  to  tell  me 
that  I  was  born  in  the  springtime,  when  the 
bluebirds  were  coming  from  the  south  and 
were  looking  about  in  the  dead  trees  for  holes 
to  build  their  nests  in.  Grass  was  just  com 
ing  up,  and  with  it  the  flowers.  She  used  to 
tell  me  how  she  would  carry  me  about,  and  a 
whole  lot  more  things  which  I  sometimes  live 
over,  though  more  often  they  seem  but  a  tale. 
Then  the  summer  went  by,  and  the  winter 
followed,  and  the  next  spring  they  laid  my 
mother  to  rest.  This  is  the  way  she  recorded 
time,  and  that  is  the  way  it  has  always  come 
to  me.  Others  have  told  me  the  exact  dates, 
but  it  has  never  been  so  pretty  as  the  way 

[91 


WILLIAM    JONES 

my  poor  simple-minded,  and  possibly  pagan, 
grandmother  used  to  tell  me.  How  strange 
that  she  too  should  have  died  at  the  same 
time  of  the  year." 

Although  on  the  government  rolls  his  name 
was  "William,"  and  although  to  some  of  his 
friends  he  was  "Wee  lee,"  the  child  bore  by 
tribal  custom  the  name  Megasiawa,  Black 
Eagle.  After  his  mother's  death,  his  grand 
mother  brought  him  to  her  lodge.  Here,  for 
nine  years,  she  took  care  of  her  little  charge. 
Katiqua  could  understand  English,  but  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  speaking  of  it; 
and  so  they  two  used  always  the  Indian 
tongue.  Their  wigwam  was  of  bark,  with 
raised  platforms  along  either  side,  on  which 
were  spread  gay  blankets  or  bright-colored 
mats  of  woven  rushes.  Outside,  all  round 
about,  lay  the  plains  with  the  wind  sound 
ing  over  them.  Indoors,  "this  golden-haired 
child  of  a  white  mother  and  two  white  grand 
fathers,  passed  the  early  years  of  his  life, 
swinging  by  day  in  his  little  hammock  cradle, 
or  seeing  life  over  his  grandmother's  shoulder 
from  his  perch  on  her  strong  back." 

Thus,  through  all  that  time  of  childhood 
which  remains  most  vitally  colored,  and 
which  would  seem  not  only  to  form  the  basis 
[10] 


EARLY    YEARS 

of  all  memories,  but  to  give  the  imagination 
its  lasting  shape  and  texture,  William  Jones 
lived,  and  saw,  and  spoke,  and  thought  as  an 
Indian.  It  was  in  the  ancient  order,  the 
prairie  faith,  and  the  old  vanishing  tradition 
that  his  grandmother  nurtured  him.  She  was 
an  Indian  of  the  highest  Fox  clan — the 
Eagle — was  a  chief's  daughter  born  to  lead, 
and  with  all  the  force  of  a  strong  character 
clung  to  the  legends  and  customs  of  her  tribe. 
What  strange  talk  passed  between  her  and  the 
little  boy,  what  rude  poetic  narrative  by  their 
evening  fire,  we  can  only  guess  at  dimly. 
Glimpses  of  their  life  together  appear  in 
retrospect  through  the  following  notes,  writ 
ten  down  long  afterward  by  one  who  became 
the  first  and  dearest  of  the  boy's  friends  when 
he  entered  our  white  man's  world. 

"Among  other  accomplishments  this  grand 
mother  had  the  gift  of  healing,  was  what  is 
known  as  a  'medicine  woman,'  an  office  that 
does  not  necessarily  encroach  upon  that  of 
the  more  priestly  'medicine  man.'  She  knew 
the  medicinal  values  of  many  roots  and  herbs, 
and  could  brew  from  them  remedies  for  va 
rious  disorders  external  and  internal.  These 
things  the  child  sought  in  the  woods  and  on 
the  prairies  by  his  grandmother's  side,  at- 

EH] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

tended  her  while  they  and  queerer  potions 
were  being  compounded  at  home,  heard  and 
remembered  much  of  the  lore  connected  with 
them,  and  saw  them  applied  at  the  sick  bed 
or  administered  at  the  dance. 

"Preparations  for  the  feasts  and  various 
tribal  functions  became  a  matter  of  familiarity 
to  him,  and  as  he  followed  his  grandmother 
about  the  homes  and  in  the  sacred  lodge,  he 
saw  and  heard  many  things  never  intended 
for  his  child's  eyes  and  ears,  but  which  com 
ing  as  they  did  so  naturally,  made  little  im 
pression  at  the  time,  though  in  later  years 
they  became  of  great  value  in  his  scientific 
work. 

"Recalling  these  days  in  later  life,  he  felt 
that  he  had  been  blessed  in  having  had  what 
he  regarded  as  an  ideal  childhood.  When 
with  one  who  could  understand  his  point  of 
view,  he  loved  to  recall  the  happy  days  spent 
with  his  'dear  nokomis,9 — the  evenings  round 
the  fire,  and  the  nights  snuggled  beneath  her 
blanket  on  the  long  hard  platform.  '  Though/ 
he  would  add,  eit  never  seemed  hard  to  me.' 

"Unusually  intelligent  and  quick  to  imi 
tate,  the  child  learned  without  conscious 
effort,  during  these  early  years,  the  songs  and 
dances  of  his  tribe,  and  so  thoroughly  that 


EARLY    YEARS 

scarcely  a  phrase  of  them  was  forgotten.  He 
could  seldom  be  persuaded  to  exhibit  either 
accomplishment,  but  when  he  did  overcome  his 
diffidence  and  forgot  himself,  he  showed  not 
only  a  rare  grace  of  movement  in  the  dance, 
but  those  little  spontaneous  variations  that 
one  sees  enacted  only  by  the  older  Indian 
people. 

"He  always  insisted  that  he  could  not  sing, 
and  would  seldom  join  even  in  a  large  chorus. 
In  his  first  school  some  one  had  laughed  at  his 
singing  and  so  disheartened  him  that  he  never 
regained  confidence  in  himself.  But  some 
times  out  in  the  woods  6  where  no  one  but  you 
and  the  trees  can  hear/  he  would  lose  his 
restraint,  and  when  once  under  the  influence 
of  the  Indian  music,  sing  song  after  song  with 
absolute  fidelity  to  the  Indian  phraseology, 
marking  time  with  anything  at  hand  that 
suggested  the  sound  of  the  Indian  drum. 

"It  was  always  a  regret  to  him  as  well  as 
to  his  friends,  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
conquer  his  shyness  and  learn  enough  of 
music  to  write  out  the  songs  he  knew  so  well. 
A  friend  to  whom  he  was  willing  to  sing  them 
tried  to  take  down  some  of  the  simpler  songs, 
but  never  succeeded  in  getting  them  quite  as 
he  knew  they  ought  to  be.  One  only — a 
[13] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

simple  little  one — remains  to  bear  the  stamp 
of  his  approval — the  song  he  as  a  little  boy 
sang  to  the  snake,  begging  him  to  find  the 
arrow  he  has  lost  in  the  grass. 

"As  a  little  child  he  learned  to  imitate  the 
call  of  the  birds  and  squirrels,  the  wild  prairie 
animals  and  the  horses,  and  often  amused 
himself,  even  in  the  East,  by,  as  he  said, 
'talking  to  them.'  Any  horse  was  of  interest, 
and  sometimes  on  the  crowded  streets  he 
would  stop  to  'say  just  a  word  to  that  tired 
old  horse.'  Whatever  it  was,  the  horse  would 
prick  up  his  ears  and  seem  to  understand. 

"He  also  had  a  trick  of  patting  on  his  knees 
the  different  gaits  of  a  horse — trotting,  can 
tering,  loping,  galloping  or  running — so  accu 
rately  that  one  could  almost  see  the  action. 
Imitating  the  reports  of  different  firearms 
was  another  form  of  amusement.  'Hark,' 
he  would  exclaim,  under  his  breath,  'do  you 
hear  that  Winchester  way  over  yonder?' 
And  sure  enough  from  'way  over  yonder' 
would  come  the  sound  that  one  could  hardly 
believe  was  made  by  a  human  throat. 

"He  could  not  remember  when  he  had 
learned  to  ride,  probably  like  other  little  In 
dians,  as  soon  as  he  was  graduated  from  his 
grandmother's  back;  but  he  did  have  very 
[14] 


EARLY    YEARS 

vivid  recollections  of  the  pony  that  shared 
his  childhood  and  next  to  his  grandmother 
was  the  dearest  thing  on  earth,  and  never  to 
be  forgotten. 

"When  the  child  was  about  nine  years  old 
the  happy  days  with  his  pony  on  the  prairies, 
and  the  wonderful  tales  told  by  his  dear 
nokomis  round  the  wigwam  fire,  came  to  a 
sudden  end.  The  blow  was  a  sharp  one,  the 
first,  and  as  he  used  to  affirm,  the  only  real 
grief  of  his  life, — the  first  sorrow  (so  far  as  he 
could  remember)  to  bring  a  tear.  Without 
warning — to  him  at  least — the  beloved  com 
panion  of  his  days  and  nights  lay  dead  in  the 
wigwam.  All  was  confusion  and  woe.  The 
father  whom  he  scarcely  knew  had  come  to 
take  him  away.  He  could  not  be  comforted. 
New  plans  and  new  experiences  had  no  in 
terest  for  him.  For  weeks  and  months  he 
sorrowed;  and  for  years  yearned  for  the  love 
and  companionship  that  had  so  enriched  his 
early  life.  A  staunch  loyalty  and  tenderness 
toward  those  he  loved  was  a  very  marked 
characteristic.  Though  he  could  have  had 
no  memory  of  his  mother,  he  treasured  a 
little  picture  his  father  had  given  him,  always 
remembered  her  birthday,  and  would  often 
say — 'I  wonder  if  my  mother  knows  this?' 
[15] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

His  own  birthday  letter,  already  quoted, 
shows  with  what  affection  he  dwelt  upon  the 
thought  of  his  mother,  and  of  the  one  who 
had  taken  his  mother's  place. 

His  grief  might  have  been  mixed  with 
wonder  could  he  then  have  foreseen  in  what 
manner  and  after  what  strange  transforma 
tion  of  self,  he  should  revisit  the  country  of 
his  childhood.  That  childhood  was  to  be 
come,  as  he  said,  "but  a  tale."  He  was  to 
return  as  a  white  man,  to  find  many  things 
obliterated  from  the  aspect  of  the  prairies  and 
their  people;  to  learn  that  the  old  familiar 
smoke  inside  the  lodges  could  seem  unfriendly, 
smarting  in  the  eyes  of  a  foreigner;  indoors  or 
out,  to  hunt  with  scholarly  painstaking  after 
glimpses  of  all  that  life  which  the  little  Indian 
boy  had  seen  flowing  past  him  so  vivid  and 
copious. 

Meanwhile,  he  knew  only  his  present  loss. 
The  chief's  daughter  was  dead,  the  medicine 
woman  gone  beyond  reach  of  magic.  She  had 
taught  her  young  Black  Eagle  all  that  she 
would  ever  teach  him.  And  now  his  father 
had  come,  to  carry  him  from  her  wigwam. 


[16] 


Ill 

COWBOY 

IN  his  new  home,  the  boy  found  many 
strange  faces.  His  father  had  taken  a  second 
wife,  a  woman  from  among  the  Cherokees. 
There  were  new  half-brothers  and  half-sisters 
to  be  his  playmates.  The  change,  however, 
was  not  enough  to  make  him  forget  his  loneli 
ness;  so  that  presently,  as  this  fact  became 
evident,  his  father  very  wisely  sent  him  to  a 
school  where  he  might  live  at  a  greater  dis 
tance  from  old  associations. 

At  about  the  age  of  ten,  accordingly,  Wil 
liam  Jones  began  to  learn  the  white  man's 
lessons,  and  to  see  the  white  man's  world 
which  he  could  claim,  by  proportion  of  blood 
and  predominance  of  character,  as  his  birth 
right.  After  a  few  months  at  Newton,  Kan 
sas,  where  his  mother's  people  lived,  he  took 
the  next  step  of  his  eastward  journey,  and 
entered  an  Indian  boarding-school  at  Wabash, 
Indiana.  This  school,  maintained  by  the 
Society  of  Friends,  was  kept  by  an  elderly 
couple,  known  as  "maw"  and  "paw"  to  their 
large  family  of  boys  and  girls  from  various 

[171 


WILLIAM    JONES 

tribes.  Here  the  little  Fox  boy  met  his  he 
reditary  foe,  the  Sioux,  with  whom  he  learned 
to  live  amicably;  although,  as  we  shall  see,  he 
never  quite  uprooted  the  stirp  and  stock  of 
tribal  antipathy,  even  in  later  years.  And 
here  at  Wabash,  under  the  gentle  rule  of  his 
teachers,  he  began  conning  our  stubborn 
primer  of  civilized  life,  and  picking  up  his  lost 
connections.  The  education  given  him  was 
of  a  sensible,  efficient  kind, — part  study,  part 
farming.  There  were  animals  and  poultry  to 
care  for,  milk,  vegetables,  and  eggs  to  look 
after,  beds  to  make,  food  to  cook,  dishes  to 
wash,  and  clothes  to  mend,  as  well  as  lessons 
to  learn  from  books.  These  things  the  family 
of  Indian  boys  and  girls  performed  according 
to  their  best  ability.  Good-will  was  a  work 
ing  principle  in  the  school,  and  cheerfulness, 
and  mutual  respect.  "A  certain  pherry  tree," 
wrote  a  visitor,  "illustrates  the  spirit  of  the 
place.  In  spring  it  would  be  loaded  with  large 
perfect  fruit,  and  so  low  that  any  child  could 
pick  his  fill;  yet  though  thirty  children  passed 
within  reach  of  it  scores  of  times  every  day, 
not  one  cherry  was  ever  touched."  The  pu 
pils  were  honest,  the  farmer-teachers  kind. 
In  this  environment  the  new  boy,  William 
Jones,  made  rapid  headway,  learning  the  Eng- 
[18] 


COWBOY 

lish  that  was  literally  his  mother  tongue,  and 
doing  well  in  all  his  study  and  work. 

After  a  three  years'  course,  he  returned  to 
the  Indian  Territory  and  his  father's  house. 
Born  out  of  doors,  and  bred  in  the  saddle,  he 
now  discovered  that  his  schooling  had  become 
the  means  of  still  greater  freedom.  It  had 
given  him  "the  key  of  the  fields."  Like  many 
Indian  boys  of  his  age  and  horsemanship, 
Jones  found  that  the  ability  to  speak  English 
admitted  him  to  the  free  company  of  cowboys, 
and  all  that  a  cowboy's  life  still  meant,  some 
twenty  years  ago.  It  was  a  rough  life,  in 
more  senses  than  one;  it  was  a  good  life,  as  he 
used  long  afterward  to  say,  with  emphasis. 
He  saw,  of  course,  the  real  thing,  all  in  the 
way  of  livelihood;  and  as  Jones  was  never  a 
man  to  view  real  things  in  falsely-romantic 
colors  (but  spoke  with  scorn  of  persons  who 
were  "romance-mad"  and  "tearful"  over  the 
Indians),  he  came  to  know  much  about  cattle 
men  and  their  ways,  knew  intimately  the 
good  and  the  bad,  the  strong  and  the  weak, 
the  wholesome  and  the  debasing.  For  three 
years  he  was  a  cowboy,  and  a  cowboy  of  the 
old  school.  He  loved  to  recall  that  period. 
"I  wish,"  he  wrote,  shortly  before  his  death, 
"I  wish  the  Plains  could  have  remained  as 
[19] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

they  were  when  I  was  a  'kid.'  ...  I  went 
down  into  Oklahoma  before  leaving  the  States 
to  take  a  last  look.  I  cannot  put  into  words 
the  feeling  of  remorse  that  rose  within  me  at 
the  things  I  saw.  The  whole  region  was  dis 
figured  with  a  most  repelling  ugliness — wind 
mills,  oil  wells,  wire  fences,  go  to  so  and  so 
for  drugs,  go  to  another  for  groceries  and  so 
on.  The  cowboy  and  the  frontiersman  were 
gone.  The  Indians  were  in  overalls  and  looked 
like  'bums.'  The  picturesque  costumes,  the 
wigwams,  horsemen,  were  things  of  the  past. 
The  virgin  prairies  were  no  more.  And  now 
they  say  that  the  place  is  a  State !  Neverthe 
less  you  saw  the  stars  that  I  used  to  see.  Did 
you  ever  behold  clearer  moonlight  nights 
anywhere  else?  Did  you  hear  the  lone  cry  of 
the  wolf  and  the  yelp  of  the  coyote?  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  long  horn  and  the 
old-time  punchers.  The  present  would-be 
punchers  are  of  a  different  build." 

Spring  round-up  in  1889  was  probably  the 
last  at  which  William  Jones  appeared  as 
active  member  of  a  cattle  "outfit."  He  was 
then  eighteen  years  old,  had  seen  a  great  deal 
of  hard  work  and  lively  adventure.  Had  he 
been  less  modest,  in  after  years,  his  talk  on 
these  matters  might  have  filled  a  book,  as  the 
[20] 


COWBOY 

saying  goes;  and  even  his  reminiscences,  rare 
and  diffident  though  they  were,  disclosed  to 
his  friends  a  wealth  of  prairie  knowledge,  a 
vigorous  abundant  experience,  beside  which 
any  book  ever  written  about  the  West  would 
appear  but  the  thinnest  kind  of  secondhand 
fiction.  He  distrusted  what  he  called  "stiff 
incidents,"  and  shied  at  the  telling  of  them; 
although  once  to  a  friend,  he  unfolded  the 
Homeric  story  of  a  "bad  man"  whom  he  had 
known, — a  fair-haired  desperado,  twenty  years 
old,  with  blue  eyes  and  the  face  of  an  inno 
cent  boy,  who  showed  unearthly  skill  at  mur 
dering  deputies  with  his  pistol,  carried  a  price 
on  his  head,  and  was  killed  only  by  a  posse, 
with  buckshot,  through  a  hole  in  a  ranch- 
house  door  at  nightfall.  Such  narratives, 
however,  Jones  regarded  as  rather  loud  bits 
of  by-play;  the  main  scenes  in  his  memory 
were  as  quiet  as  they  were  full  of  space,  vista, 
and  color.  He  told  of  daily  happenings  on  the 
range,  by  the  river-bottoms;  the  ways  of  cows 
and  their  calves;  of  ponies  at  work,  of  famous 
pony  races — in  more  than  one  of  which  he  had 
been  chosen  to  ride;  of  curious  debates  among 
old  frontiersmen,  and  quarrels  which  they 
sometimes  averted  by  appealing  to  him  as  to 
one  who  could  read  and  write.  He  knew  the 


WILLIAM    JONES 

little  prairie  towns,  and  how  his  friends  the 
"cow-punchers"  took  their  pleasure  there; 
the  talk,  devices  and  philosophy  of  gamblers 
in  "back  rooms";  the  death-in-life  gaiety  of 
dance-halls.  Through  the  whole  miscellany 
of  the  plains  our  young  cowboy  rode  care 
free,  seeing  it  all  with  his  bright  brown  eyes, 
learning  both  the  worse  and  the  better  side  of 
mankind,  getting  much  permanent  good  from 
his  experiences,  and  singularly  little  harm. 
His  own  part  in  the  doings  of  this  period,  he 
seldom  talked  about;  but  not  because  there 
was  anything  to  conceal.  His  friends  recall 
one  story  of  how,  on  a  round-up,  the  men  had 
all  risen  and  gone  to  work  at  dawn;  how  the 
camp  cook,  in  tidying  up,  shook  out  of  Billy's 
blankets  a  live  rattle-snake,  killed  it,  and 
when  the  men  returned  for  breakfast,  called 
out — "Look  here,  what  this  kid  was  sleeping 
with!"  The  episode  might  almost  serve  as  a 
fable. 

"The  most  beautiful  adventures,"  accord 
ing  to  some  writer,  "are  not  those  we  go  to 
seek."  And  now  to  Billy  the  great  adventure, 
of  his  life  came  of  its  own  accord.  He  would 
have  preferred,  at  that  age,  to  go  on  riding  the 
plains.  His  father,  however,  was  a  wise  man 
who  saw  beyond  the  horizon  of  youth.  In  the 

mi 


COWBOY 

autumn  of  1889,  Miss  Folsom  came  from 
Virginia  to  visit  the  Sauk  and  Fox  reserva 
tion,  and  find  pupils  for  the  Hampton  Insti 
tute.  The  father  recognized  this  opportunity 
for  his  son,  took  a  hurried  journey  of  twenty 
miles  to  find  him,  and  next  day  brought  him 
into  the  Agency.  It  was  the  turning-point  of 
the  boy's  life;  for  by  sunset  of  the  next  day, 
along  with  ten  other  Indian  youths,  William 
Jones  was  reluctantly  speeding  East  to  begin 
his  career. 


[23 


IV 

HAMPTON  AND   ANDOVER 

JONES  arrived  at  Hampton  Institute  on 
October  1st,  1889.  He  was  a  slender  but 
manly  youth,  in  cowboy  clothes,  high-heeled 
boots,  and  broad  felt  hat,  with  a  silk  hand 
kerchief  hung  around  his  throat.  From  a 
picture  taken  at  this  time,  his  features  would 
seem  to  have  been  touched  with  something 
of  unyouthful  firmness,  as  though  rough 
weather  and  rough  fare  had  matured  them 
before  their  time.  The  eyes  appear  wistful, 
but  (even  by  the  photograph)  uncommonly 
fine,  and  deeply  alive  with  thought.  There 
were  sparks  of  hidden  light  in  them,  so  that 
they  reminded  one  of  the  clear  brown  water 
in  a  brook,  with  sunshine  at  the  bottom.  His 
hair  had  precisely  the  same  color:  it  was 
brown  and  somewhat  wavy,  tinged  with 
dusky  but  living  gleams  like  bits  of  outdoor 
brightness  blown  into  it  and  caught  there. 

Malaria,  the  chills  and  fever  of  the  plains, 

made  him  appear  less  rugged  than  he  was. 

Besides  malaria  in  his  blood,  William  Jones 

found    more   subtle   ingredients   to   contend 

[24] 


HAMPTON    AND    ANDOVER 

with, — youthful  unrest,  the  roving  habits  of 
camp  life,  and  the  inherited  love  of  action 
under  the  open  sky.  Indian  and  cowboy 
liberty  maintained  their  spell  over  him.  It 
was  hard  to  be  caged  in  a  classroom,  hard  to 
bear  anything  so  artificial  as  routine.  At  the 
Wabash  school,  he  had  been  younger  and  more 
docile;  now  he  had  reached  that  age  where 
the  will  is  "the  wind's  will";  and  at  Hampton 
every  hour  was  ordered  and  appointed:  from 
the  rising  bell  in  the  morning  until  taps  at 
night,  task  followed  task,  study  and  work 
and  drill,  in  a  precise  rotation  that  was  sadly 
different  from  the  old  by-and-large  methods 
of  the  Territory.  His  harness  must  have 
chafed  him  sore. 

Meanwhile,  to  fit  the  new  life,  young  Jones 
had  a  new  code  of  morals  to  formulate.  This 
pagan  boy,  of  mingled  blood  and  mingled 
experience,  had  to  feel  and  think  his  way 
toward  spiritual  manhood.  A  dawn  of  knowl 
edge  among  prairie  myths,  three  years  in  the 
devout  Quaker  family,  three  more  with  the 
cattlemen,  left  his  mind  so  constituted  that, 
on  arriving  at  Hampton,  he  courteously  but 
firmly  refused  the  gift  of  a  Bible,  saying  that 
he  did  not  believe  in  it  and  would  rather  not 
take  it.  Gradually,  he  found  that  the  whole 
[25] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

question  of  belief  could  not  so  easily  be  set 
aside.  The  Reverend  J.  J.  Gravatt,  rector 
of  St.  John's  in  Hampton,  won  the  boy's 
respect  and  confidence.  At  last,  in  his  third 
year  at  the  school,  William  decided  to  unite 
with  the  Episcopal  church.  What  that  deci 
sion  meant,  to  a  shy  boy  who  shrank  in  agony 
from  any  kind  of  public  notice,  and  who  had 
always  eagerly  hoped  to  regain  his  old  free 
dom  on  the  plains,  appears  in  one  notable 
declaration.  "I  understand  myself,"  said  he, 
"and  I  know  that  I  cannot  live  a  Christian 
life  out  there.  I  will  not  call  myself  a  Chris 
tian  and  disgrace  the  name."  The  rite  of 
confirmation  was  to  him,  in  prospect,  an  act 
as  irrevocable  as  that  of  any  saint, — a  re 
nunciation  of  the  world,  the  only  world  he 
knew  and  cared  about.  The  bishop  who 
confirmed  him  was  a  stranger,  and  after  the 
service  inquired  about  the  'youth  with  the 
spiritual  face,'  saying  that  he  had  'never 
seen  a  more  glorified  expression  on  a  human 
face'  than  the  one  this  boy  raised  to  him  as 
he  placed  his  hand  on  his  head  in  benediction. 
No  one,  according  to  the  old  and  hard  saying, 
can  save  his  brother's  soul;  no  one,  at  all 
events,  may  hope  to  portray  it;  and  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  the  boy  had  turned  the 
[26] 


HAMPTON    AND    ANDOVER 

main  corner  safely.  Succeeding  years,  further 
study,  and  intimate  contact  with  many  forms 
of  belief  and  disbelief  undoubtedly  modified 
the  man's  convictions.  We  shall  not  spy  after 
his  creed,  the  path  by  which  our  friend  went 
apart,  like  the  old  Indian  at  prayer,  to  "re 
main  silent  before  the  Great  Mystery." 

For  three  years  Jones  worked  hard  at  his 
books,  at  the  carpenter's  bench,  and  on  the 
school  farm,  showing  with  both  head  and 
hands  that  he  possessed  more  than  average 
ability.  Each  year  saw  him  steadily  advanc 
ing.  In  the  spring  of  1892,  he  won  the  two 
senior  prizes  for  scholarship,  and  was  entitled 
to  deliver  the  valedictory, — an  honor  which 
he  declined,  because,  he  said,  he  was  more 
white  than  Indian,  had  at  best  only  a  fourth 
title  to  any  such  distinction,  and  would  not 
claim  that.  Schoolboy  honors  seldom  count 
for  much;  but  seldom  does  a  prize  pupil  wave 
them  aside  with  so  generous  a  motive.  Jones 
was  not  a  mere  clever  boy,  the  "head  of  the 
class"  whose  hand  is  always  in  the  air  sig 
nalling  "I  know"  to  his  teacher.  Three  years 
at  Hampton,  under  good  discipline,  had  given 
him  the  makings  of  a  man. 

And  now  he  had  to  form  a  man's  decision, 
and  choose  a  forward  course.  At  gradua- 
[27] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

tion — when  he  received  one  of  the  last  diplo 
mas  ever  signed  by  General  Armstrong — 
William  saw  clearly  that  he  must  make  him 
self  an  exception  to  Hampton's  rule  of  going 
back  to  his  own  people.  All  his  inclinations 
pulled  him  to  go  back.  His  heart  was  with 
the  plains.  His  judgment  lay  uncertainly  in 
the  opposite  quarter.  It  was  a  choice  be 
tween  the  easiest  way  and  the  hardest.  Our 
young  graduate  proved  resolute  in  facing  the 
hardest,  and  following  it.  He  went  north  for 
the  summer,  to  work  on  a  farm  where,  at  odd 
moments,  he  could  study  a  little  Latin  and 
make  himself  ready  to  enter  Phillips  Andover. 
He  had  put  behind  him  all  chance  of  the  old 
free  life,  and  gathered  his  energy  toward  that 
hard-scrabble  road,  full  of  doubtful  turnings, 
which  we  call  the  higher  education. 

Andover  he  entered  in  the  autumn  of  1892. 
The  school  seemed  at  first  to  offer  the  wildest 
kind  of  liberty,  after  the  strictly  ordered  life 
at  Hampton.  This  liberty  proved  only  ap 
parent,  for  William  soon  found  that  his  work 
ing  day  was,  in  reality,  more  crowded  even 
than  before.  His  studies,  also,  were  new  and 
strange.  The  teachers  conducted  their  classes 
on  a  different  plan.  "With  study  and  tutor 
ing,"  he  wrote,  "I  do  not  get  time  for  much 
[28] 


HAMPTON    AND    ANDOVER 

outside  reading.  Polycon  [Political  Econ 
omy]  is  mighty  interesting,  but  it  requires  a 
lot  of  time.  .  .  .  Geometry  is  giving  me  all 
kinds  of  tired  feelings."  Out  of  school  hours, 
he  had  a  cottage  to  care  for,  as  a  means 
toward  the  earning  of  his  expenses.  He  found 
time  for  a  little  football — enough  to  get  one 
leg  slightly  injured — but  on  the  whole  was 
too  busy  to  take  much  play  or  exercise. 

"The  journal  letters  begun  at  Andover," 
says  the  friend  to  whom  he  wrote  them, 
"were  his  first  attempt  at  any  expression  of 
himself.  They  began  in  homesickness  and 
discouragement,  were  badly  constructed  and 
poorly  expressed;  but  as  the  days  went  on, 
new  experiences  and  new  ideas  crowded  in, 
and  in  his  intense  desire  to  make  another  see 
and  understand,  he  gradually  formed  a  style 
of  his  own  which  developed  into  one  of  con 
siderable  merit."  His  English  had  always 
been  full  of  curious  idioms  and  the  colloquial 
isms  of  the  West,  and  he  was  often  much 
discouraged  over  it.  "I  shall  always  say — 
4 1  have  went,'  "  he  would  moan;  "nothing 
else  will  ever  sound  right."  His  own  little 
turns  of  speech  were  often  quaint,  as  when 
once  he  wrote,  being  perplexed:  "I  don't 
know  what  to  do!  I'm  all  wrapped  up  in  a 
[29] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

fix."  And  when  walking  with  a  lady  whose 
sash  had  become  unfastened,  the  young 
scholar  addressed  her,  with  more  knowledge 
of  grammar  than  of  furbelows:  "Excuse  me, 
but  your — one  of  your  personal  endings  is 
dragging  on  the  ground." 

After  his  difficulties  with  the  English  lan 
guage,  William  rejoiced  to  find  that  Latin 
could  be  "very  interesting"  and  Greek  still 
more  so.  In  his  first  year  at  Andover,  he  was 
able  to  help  other  boys  with  their  Latin;  in 
his  second  year,  and  throughout  the  rest  of 
his  course,  he  earned  part  of  his  expenses  by 
tutoring  in  both  the  classical  tongues.  This 
was  not  bad  for  "a  little  prep  at  Andover," 
as  he  afterward  called  himself.  All  four  years 
were  full  of  hard  work.  Now  and  then  a  let 
ter  gives  a  picture  of  schoolboy  fun.  "The 
dancing  teacher  had  some  girls  for  us  yester 
day.  Oh,  no,  I  didn't  get  rattled !  But  it  was 
so  much  joy,  though!  Tell  Billy  [the  friend 
who  had  given  him  admission  to  the  dancing 
class,  as  a  Christmas  present]  that  he  is  the 
means  of  my  having  a  mighty  good  time." 
Yet  these  light-footed  interludes  appear  none 
too  often;  the  boy's  progress  through  Andover, 
though  pleasant,  was  a  steady  march  toward 
a  serious  purpose.  In  a  brief  summer  visit  to 
[30] 


HAMPTON    AND    ANDOVER 

his  old  home  on  the  prairie,  William  had  be 
gun  to  see  his  Indian  people  more  clearly,  to 
understand  their  part  in  the  general  human 
situation,  and  to  feel  strongly  that  he  must 
do  something  for  them.  Just  what,  he  could 
not  tell;  but  the  question  filled  his  mind,  as 
when  he  wrote  from  Andover  to  his  former 
schoolmates  at  Hampton: 

"We  hear  of  Indian  problems  and  schemes 
for  solving  them.  Many  of  those  who  origi 
nate  these  schemes  are  friends  of  the  Indian, 
but  know  little  or  nothing  of  what  he  really 
needs.  But  we  who  come  from  the  reserva 
tions  know  how  the  Indians  are  living,  and 
perhaps  if  we  should  try  we  might  find  some 
way  of  showing  them  how  to  live  better.  We 
do  not  have  to  do  something  that  everyone 
will  hear  and  praise.  The  greatest  good  will 
be  done  by  our  showing  our  relatives  and 
neighbors  how  to  live  by  doing  it  ourselves  in 
a  quiet,  honest  way.  We  should  never  de 
spise  them,  but  because  we  have  seen  and 
been  taught,  this  should  make  us  all  the  more 
willing  to  help  them  on  to  the  better  way." 

From  indefinite  desire  to  help,  Jones  gradu 
ally  approached  a  plan  which  seemed  to  con 
tain  equal  promise  and  difficulty.  He  knew 
the  Indians,  their  language  and  their  life;  now 
[31] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

if  he  could  become  skilled  in  medicine,  and 
so  return  to  them,  not  only  with  a  wider 
knowledge  of  modern  affairs,  but  as  a  physi 
cian,  he  might  truly  serve  his  own  people. 
Obstacles,  not  a  few,  stood  in  the  way  of  this 
project.  His  income  barely  sufficed  to  clothe 
him.  By  February  of  his  final  year  at  school, 
he  wrote:  "I  have  in  mind  now  only  this.  I 
am  going  to  pass  my  final  examinations  for 
Harvard.  But  whether  I  go  to  the  Medical 
School  or  anywhere  else  is  a  question.  If  I 
could  earn  a  scholarship  or  earn  anything 
at  Harvard  I  would  not  hesitate,  but  there 
seems  no  chance.  I  will  not  pose  as  an 
Indian.  I  will  not  take  a  cent  on  that  score. 
It  isn't  fair,  besides  it  would  be  uncom 
fortable."  The  same  spirit  which  prompted 
him  to  forego  the  valedictory  at  Hampton,  now 
made  him  fight  his  own  battle.  It  was  a  gal 
lant  stand  for  any  youth  to  take.  Being  a 
white  man,  William  Jones  could  accept  no 
favor,  allowance,  or  suspension  of  the  rules; 
but  he  would  discard  no  obligations,  for  he 
took  pride  in  his  birth  among  the  Fox  people 
and  the  Eagle  clan. 

His  problem  was  complicated  by  the  fact 
that  he  had  begun,  and  only  begun,  to  dis 
cover  his  real  gifts.     The  discovery  is  best 
[32] 


HAMPTON    AND    ANDOVER 

told  in  the  words  of  the  person  who  chiefly 
brought  it  about:  "While  at  Hampton,  and 
later  during  a  vacation,  he  had  been  en 
couraged  to  write  out  and  make  a  little  study 
of  his  Indian  language,  and  one  day  while 
visiting  the  Public  Library  in  Boston  was 
shown  the  Eliot  Bible  there.  One  of  the 
librarians  very  kindly  allowed  him  to  look 
through  it,  and  to  his  great  surprise  and  de 
light  he  found  that  he  could  read  a  great  deal 
of  it.  The  dialect  differed  from  his  own,  but 
belonged  to  the  great  Algonkin  family  and 
had  much  in  common  with  his  own  branch  of 
it.  The  Hosford  collection  at  Wellesley  was 
brought  to  his  attention,  too,  early  in  his 
Andover  days;  and  many  other  things  served 
to  stimulate  his  natural  interest  in  the  eth 
nology  of  his  people." 

April,  1896,  found  Jones  therefore  in  a 
quandary.  Two  possible  careers  lay  before 
him,  neither  as  yet  offering  more  than  pos 
sibility.  As  to  his  own  fitness,  he  felt  no 
conviction  or  preference.  Medicine  appears 
to  have  come  foremost  among  his  thoughts, 
but  only  because  friends  were  advising  him 
in  that  direction.  Dr.  Bancroft,  then  at  the 
head  of  Phillips  Andover,  had  given  friendly 
guidance  throughout,  and  shown,  above  all, 
[33] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

that  he  understood  and  properly  valued  his 
shy  pupil.  But  even  the  weight  of  the 
Doctor's  opinion  could  not  settle  this  diffi 
cult  affair.  With  graduation  only  two  months 
ahead,  Jones  was  both  anxious  to  decide  and 
unable.  "Dr.  Bancroft,"  he  wrote,  "strongly 
urges  me  to  go  to  Harvard,  spend  three  years 
there  for  an  A.  B.  degree,  and  then  go  to  the 
Medical  School.  ...  I  can  see  the  general 
wisdom  of  his  plan,  but  my  case  is  so  peculiar, 
so  different  from  most  others.  Shall  I  go  to 
college  three  years  and  then  perhaps  to  the 
Medical?  The  one  sure  and  strong  argument 
for  going  to  college  first  is  that  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  that  I  am  going  to  like  medicine,  and 
that  perhaps  my  ethnology  work  in  Indian 
may  suit  me  better." 

Time  alone  could  show.  Meanwhile  the 
boy  worked  steadily.  Examinations  ended, 
the  machinery  of  school  routine  ceased  run 
ning,  and  Class  Day  approached.  The  close 
of  his  life  at  Andover  is  told  in  his  letters: 

"...  I  came  home  about  midnight,  as 
near  dead  as  I  ever  was,  tired  physically  and 
mentally,  for  I  had  been  up  late  the  night  be 
fore,  and  early  that  morning,  plugging  Geome 
try.  My  room-mate  left  this  morning  for  his 
home.  Gradually  the  boys  are  leaving.  I'm 
[34] 


HAMPTON    AND    ANDOVER 

having  pretty  good  luck  disposing  of  the  old 
things  I  don't  want  and  can't  take  away. 
To-day  was  Class  Day.  Everything  went  off 
nicely,  and  the  day  was  pleasant.  The  old 
Chapel  was  decorated  with  flowers,  and  the 
boys  in  their  caps  and  gowns,  and  the  fem- 
sems  and  other  pretty  girls  seated  in  the  seats 
behind  them  and  along  the  sides,  made  the 
old  Chapel  look  better  than  it  ever  did.  I 
saw  so  many  sisters  and  mothers  looking  on 
pleased  at  heart  and  doubtless  proud  of  their 
sons,"  the  motherless  boy  reflects.  "I  shall 
never  forget  this  Commencement.  ...  I  don't 
know  that  I'll  get  a  diploma.  I  hope  I  do. 

"It  was  late  last  night  when  I  left  off  this 
letter.  Since  then  several  things  have  taken 
place.  Commencement  is  over,  and  I  have 
my  Phillips  diploma.  I  am  no  more  a  student 
here.  Somehow  I  feel  turned  out,  and  hardly 
know  where  to  go.  This  afternoon  a  note 
came  from  Cambridge  telling  me  that  I  have 
assigned  to  me  $250  from  the  Price  Greenleaf 
Aid.  That  certainly  gives  me  life  enough  for 
one  more  year,  doesn't  it?" 

One  year  in  college — future  enough,  for 
hundreds  of  poor  and  cheerful  young  adven 
turers — was  future  enough  for  Jones,  as  he 
put  off  his  schoolboy  cap  and  gown. 

[351 


SUMMER   WORK 

BETWEEN  Andover  and  Harvard  there  in 
tervened  a  summer  vacation,  of  which  Wil 
liam  took  advantage  to  go  West,  to  his  father's 
"prairie  place."  Mr.  Henry  Jones  had  re 
ceived  a  commission  to  collect  students  for 
Carlisle, — in  other  words,  to  canvass  not  only 
his  Sauk  and  Fox  neighbors  but  the  Kick- 
apoos,  Shawnees,  and  other  Indians  near  by, 
wherever  he  might  persuade  a  parent  to  send 
a  boy  or  a  girl  to  this  great  Indian  school 
in  the  East.  William  Jones,  as  may  be 
imagined,  was  overjoyed  at  being  allowed  to 
join  his  father  in  the  enterprise.  They  went 
about  together,  visiting  the  different  tribes. 
It  is  pleasant  to  recall,  in  this  relation,  what 
heartily  admiring  terms  the  young  man  used 
when  speaking  of  his  father.  "We  are  great 
chums."  And  adding  a  little  portrait:  "I 
think  he  has  a  fine  head.  It  always  reminds 
me  of  Julius  Caesar's,  but  with  the  tenderness 
and  kindness  of  the  youthful  Augustus's 
head."  Then,  as  though  afraid  of  having 
[36] 


SUMMER    WORK 

bared  his  own  heart,  he  hastens  to  qualify: 
"I  am  likely  to  idealize  people  I  like." 

The  pair  travelled  to  and  fro  busily  on  their 
errand,  which  took  them  through  the  heat  of 
Indian  Territory  in  August,  at  that  season 
when  the  sun,  a  sharp  red  orb,  goes  down 
through  dust  like  the  smoke  of  general  com 
bustion.  No  record  remains  of  their  diplo 
macy,  except  a  few  jottings  in  the  boy's 
diary: 

"August  13.  Eagle  House.  Sac  and  Fox 
xme  night  for  two  and  team. 

"August  15.  Kansas  Sac  village  again. 
Met  leading  men.  All  refused.  Sac  village 
again.  Got  Leona  Grey-eyes. 

"August  18.  Father  goes  to  Kickapoos. 

"August  19.  Father  returns — no  success. 

"August  22.  We  go  to  Shawnee.  ...  Go 
up  the  river  to  Jac.  View's.  Got  Angela  View, 
a  Pottawattomie  girl. 

"August  23.  Kicking  Kickapoos  decide  to 
send  no  children. 

"August  24.  Osinakasi  does  not  bring  his 
children. 

"August  25.  Sick  again  with  malaria.  .  .  . 
Go  out  after  Sac  girl  in  the  afternoon.  .  .  . 
Father  returns.  2  Shawnee  boys  come  to  go 
to  Carlisle." 

[37] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

With  this  humble  triumph,  the  diary  breaks 
off.  Before  the  end  of  August,  having  col 
lected  seven  or  eight  young  hostages  to  edu 
cation,  William  came  East  with  them,  and 
left  them  at  Carlisle.  Of  all  the  "sub- 
Freshmen"  then  travelling  toward  college, 
none,  surely,  had  passed  a  summer  more 
varied  and  picturesque,  or  had  been  so  busy 
plucking  up  and  transplanting  the  lives  of 
other  people.  Jones  himself  had  gained  fresh 
experience,  received  many  new  impressions, 
and  revised  many  old  ones.  He  brought  away 
some  additional  knowledge  of  the  Indians  and 
the  plains,  but  above  all,  a  profound  sense  of 
the  changes  which  had  swept  and  were  still 
sweeping  over  the  face  of  his  native  country. 
"Out  on  the  bald  prairie  where  I  used  to  see 
only  cattle  and  ponies  graze,"  he  said  after 
ward,  there  were  fewer  and  fewer  traces  of 
the  life  which  he  had  known,  and  which  he  re 
called  in  all  the  coloring  of  boyhood  memories. 

One  remaining  fixture,  it  appears,  was 
malaria.  William  had  fought  against  illness 
throughout  his  task  as  a  fisher  of  men;  and 
now  when  after  establishing  the  little  Indians 
at  their  school,  he  went  on  toward  Cambridge, 
it  was  to  the  old  accompaniment  of  chills  and 
fever. 

[38] 


VI 

HARVARD    1896-'97 

JONES  entered  Harvard  College  in  the  au 
tumn  of  1896  with  a  "condition"  in  physics 
and  a  temperature  of  one  hundred  and  four 
degrees.  "The  hottest  man  in  Cambridge," 
he  called  himself,  in  language  both  literal  and 
figurative,  for  his  fever  had  prevented  him 
from  removing  the  "condition,"  and  so,  to  his 
great  chagrin,  had  spoiled  the  clean  slate  with 
which  he  hoped  to  start. 

He  had  better  fortune  in  securing  his 
quarters,  a  room  in  the  Yard — 26  Stoughton 
Hall — which  proved  so  much  to  his  liking 
that  he  retained  it  throughout  his  four  years' 
course.  Luxury,  during  the  nineties,  had  not 
yet  seeped  through  the  college  walls;  and 
undergraduates  living  in  the  Yard  still  prac 
tised  the  simplicity  of  a  former  generation. 
Stoughton  26,  at  that  time,  was  a  severe  room 
on  the  third  floor,  finished  in  painted  panels 
which  gave  it  the  air  of  a  ship's  cabin,  and 
which,  as  on  board  ship,  concealed  many  odd 
cubby-holes  and  lockers.  As  one  remembers 
it,  the  room  contained  none  of  that  demented 
[39] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

multiplication  of  details  which  undergradu 
ates  then  considered  as  decorative.  It  was 
always  a  plain  study,  a  man's  room,  and  like 
its  occupant,  made  no  display  of  Indian  be 
longings;  although  to  a  friend,  at  the  right 
season  of  talk,  "Billy"  would  produce  from 
his  lockers  the  most  romantic  objects, — bead- 
work,  weapons,  a  tobacco-pouch  fashioned 
from  the  head  of  a  sorrel  pony,  all  kinds  of 
outdoor  and  wigwam  things  made  by  tribes 
men  with  an  eye  for  color.  At  other  times 
these  keepsakes  remained  hidden. 

Here  in  his  room  our  Freshman  settled 
down,  like  other  youth,  to  the  mixture  of  work 
and  dreams.  Work  predominated,  for  he  un 
dertook  six  courses,  and  planned  to  get  his 
degree  in  three  years.  Besides,  there  were 
term-bills  to  meet;  and  Jones,  to  help  himself 
as  far  as  possible,  wrote  from  time  to  time 
little  stories  of  cowboy  or  Indian  life;  not 
with  much  success,  for  we  find  him  saying  in 
discouragement:  "I  wish  now  I  hadn't  taken 
so  many  courses.  It  is  too  late  to  drop  a 
course.  Just  the  moment  I  begin  a  story,  I 
fall  behind  in  my  work,  and  it  is  hard  to  catch 
up.  I  have  material  for  three  stories,  but  I 
haven't  a  moment  to  give  one  of  them.  I 
don't  suppose  I  could  get  much,  if  anything, 
[40] 


HARVARD    1896-'97 

for  any  of  them."  Malaria  played  its  part  in 
this  despondency.  He  adds:  "I  am  feeling 
wretchedly  to-day/' 

Shortly  after  "Mid-years,"  1897,  he  found 
a  new  impetus  and  made  a  new  friend.  On 
March  6,  Jones  might  well  confide  in  his 
journal  letter,  "It  has  been  an  interesting  day 
to  me";  for  on  this  day  he  had  met  the  man 
who  opened  the  future  to  him,  gave  his  am 
bition  its  final  bent,  and  played  the  part  of 
destiny  at  a  turning-point.  Mr.  F.  W.  Put 
nam,  Peabody  Professor  of  American  Archae 
ology  and  Ethnology,  saw  at  once  the  young 
man's  capacity  and  unrivalled  fitness  for 
Indian  research.  "My  meeting  with  Profes 
sor  Putnam  was  the  very  nicest  talk  I  be 
lieve  I  ever  had  with  an  elderly  man,  excepting 
perhaps  one  or  two  with  Dr.  Bancroft.  He 
took  me  right  in,  and  told  me  just  exactly 
what  I  wanted  to  know  without  the  least 
possible  questioning  on  my  part  except  one 
or  two  times.  I  am  afraid  my  dreams  of  ever 
becoming  a  doctor  are  all  thrown  aside.  The 
field  he  opened  out  to  me  is  certainly  wide, 
with  room  enough  for  hundreds  of  intelli 
gent  workers.  There  is  an  opening  without 
any  question,  and  so  my  little  mind  is  sent 
drifting  in  another  direction.  What  struck 
[41] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

me  most  was  the  taking  of  courses  that  I 
entered  upon  when  college  opened  and  the 
ones  I  am  taking  now.  For  these  were  the 
very  ones  he  suggested  I  must  need,  and  then 
pointed  out  what  others  I  must  take  next 
year,  and  so  on.  Don't  you  think  it  strange? 
My  courses  next  year  will  probably  be  Eng 
lish,  French,  German,  Spanish,  Anthropology, 
and  perhaps  early  colonial  history.  You  per 
haps  can't  understand  just  now  how  these 
courses  I  have  now  fit  right  into  those  above. 
He  told  me  to  run  in  at  any  time  I  choose 
and  see  him.  'My  boy,  make  yourself  at 
home,'  he  said,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  'and  come  over  to  the  house  and 
see  us  there.' — Our  little  meeting  couldn't 
have  been  more  pleasant  or  successful."  It 
is  pleasant,  also,  to  think  that  the  relations 
here  begun  continued  unbroken,  and  that 
this  teacher  won  his  pupil's  lifelong  affection. 
Other  letters  record,  at  random,  what 
Jones  did  and  thought  as  a  Freshman.  His 
first  year  at  Harvard  passed  quietly  and,  on 
the  whole,  happily.  Studies  and  plans  came 
foremost.  "Botany  is  great!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  and  I  will  have  some  fun  with  it,  if  I 
can  go  up  to  camp  next  summer  with  you." 
To  a  friend  who  sent  him  a  box  of  that  most 
[42] 


HARVARD    1896-'97 

Indian  confection,  maple  sugar:  "I  hope," 
says  he,  "y°u  won't  think  this  is  a  very,  very 
quick  answer  to  your  letter,  but  I  can't  re 
sist  the  temptation  to  write  just  a  word  after 
the  maple  sugar  box  was  opened.  I  fancy  I 
see  a  little  smile  beginning.  .  .  .  'Oh,  he 
isn't  going  to  work  me  for  another  box  of 
maple  sugar  so  easily  as  that!'  But  now 
please  may  I  have  another  some  time?  You 
know  my  weakness.  Nothing  strengthens  it 
better  than  maple  sugar."  Sometimes  there 
is  an  echo  of  cowboy  days.  :'Your  quotation 
from  Lamb  *  would  lead  one  to  think  he  was 
a  loser  at  poker.  One  likes  to  hide  his  dirt; 
especially  a  poker  player;  so  that  if  that  was 
his  trumps,  he  wouldn't  want  to  'be  called' 
for  a  'show  down,'  so  he  would  pass,  hand  in 
his  'checks'  and  so  lose  the  'ante'  and  per 
haps  his  bet.  These  are  old  Oklahoma  phrases 
that  come  running  back  into  my  mind  at  the 
thought  which  your  quotation  stirs  up;  so 
don't  think  it's  any  Cambridge  experience 
I'm  having."  Now  and  then,  as  he  struggles 
with  much  wrork  or  his  recurring  fever,  he 
makes  characteristic  apology  for  writing  such 
idle  things  as  letters.  "  Saturday  evening  .  .  * 

*  Charles  Lamb  to  Martin  Burney,  at  whist:  "If  dirt  was  trumps, 
what  a  hand  you'd  hold!" 

[43] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

I  have  lots  and  lots  to  do,  but  I'm  not  am 
bitious  enough  for  it  this  evening,  and  so  this 
is  one  of  the  ways  I  have  to  rest  myself.  Of 
course  you  don't  mind?" 

As  his  Freshman  year  drew  toward  an  end, 
Jones  confronted  a  new  decision.  He  had 
become  a  member  of  the  Boston  Folk  Lore 
Society,  and  written  a  few  articles  for  the 
Folk  Lore  Journal.  The  society  was  now 
anxious  to  help  in  sending  him  West  for  a 
summer  among  the  Indians,  and  through 
Mr.  W.  W.  Newell,  offered  him  $110  toward 
such  an  expedition.  As  this  sum  would  barely 
provide  for  a  short  visit,  and  as  Jones  would 
run  considerable  risk  of  increasing  his  ma 
laria,  his  friends  who  best  knew  the  circum 
stances  counselled  him  to  decline  the  offer, 
and  to  spend  a  quiet  vacation  camping  among 
the  New  Hampshire  lakes.  Jones  felt  strongly 
tempted  to  rest;  but  his  ambition  being  now 
too  thoroughly  awake,  he  could  not  give  up 
active  service.  "I  have  you  bothered  very 
much,"  he  writes  to  one  of  his  advisers,  "be 
cause  I  am  not  so  obedient  as  I  might  be. 
The  truth  is  just  this.  Either  I  must  drive 
everything  possible  in  the  way  to  the  Medical 
School,  and  thus  make  it  no  matter  of  dif 
ference  whether  I  go  West  or  not;  or  else 
[44] 


HARVARD    1896-'97 

familiarize  myself  with  everything  that  is 
Indian — and  the  best  way  for  this,  you  know, 
is  to  go  West  and  be  among  Indians.  This 
is  why  I  have  been  holding  off  so  long,  and  it 
is  not  so  easy  to  settle  yet.  ...  I  know 
there  is  malaria  in  Oklahoma,  and  what  not 
in  Iowa,  but  how  else  am  I  to  get  these  things 
without  braving  something  unpleasant?  I 
am  forgetting  my  Sac  most  woefully,  and  by 
next  year  I  won't  be  able  to  say  hardly  a 
word.  ...  I  don't  see  how  I  deserve  such 
good  fortune  as  a  real  vacation,  and  I  know  I 
shall  be  feeling  all  the  time  that  I  ought  to  be 
working." 

These  considerations  carried  the  day.  In 
the  following  summer  (1897)  William  lived 
among  the  Sauk  and  Fox  Indians  near  Tama, 
Iowa.*  These  people,  a  branch  of  the  Ok 
lahoma  tribe,  maintained  their  community 
apart  in  its  ancient  form,  almost  unaffected 
by  the  influence  of  white  men.  They  fought 
stubbornly  against  all  efforts  of  the  govern 
ment  to  bring  their  children  into  school, 
celebrated  the  tribal  rites  of  their  forefathers, 
and  clung  to  the  old  language,  costume,  and 
tradition.  Our  Harvard  undergraduate  came 
to  them  in  the  dress  and  with  the  bearing 

*See  note,  page  7. 

[45] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

of  a  white  man,  but  they  welcomed  him  as 
Megasiawa,  the  Black  Eagle,  to  whom  the 
Eagle  house  was  open.  Here,  says  one  who 
knew  both  guest  and  hosts,  he  revived  the 
teaching  and  experience  of  his  childhood — 
here  he  heard  and  spoke  again  for  the  first 
time  in  years  the  language  of  his  Indian  peo 
ple.  He  knew  then  that  he  belonged  to  them 
and  they  to  him.  They  in  their  turn  recog 
nized  in  his  sympathy  and  respect  for  them 
that  he  was  their  brother.  Nothing,  perhaps, 
shows  this  more  plainly  to  one  who  under 
stands  the  race,  than  the  fact  that  no  effort 
was  made  to  induce  him  to  give  up  his  "white 
man's  ways"  of  life  or  thought.  Instead  they 
took  him  into  their  most  sacred  ceremonies 
just  as  he  was,  withholding  nothing  and  de 
manding  nothing,  content  that  with  his  In 
dian  heart  he  should  keep  his  white  man's 
head. 

For  three  months  he  lived  with  an  old 
couple  who  claimed  a  distant  kinship — only 
that  kinship  is  never  distant  with  an  Indian. 
He  watched  the  daily  life  as  it  went  on  round 
him,  listened  by  the  hour  to  the  tales  the  old 
men  were  glad  to  tell  him,  and  in  return  im 
pressed  upon  them  by  life  as  well  as  by 
speech,  the  advantages  of  education,  showing 

[46] 


HARVARD    1896-'97 

them  how  to  improve  their  farms  and  homes, 
and  urging  them,  with  some  success,  to  send 
their  children  to  school. 

Passages  here  and  there  in  Jones's  letters 
hint  at  the  variety,  as  well  as  some  of  the 
difficulty,  in  his  life  among  the  summer 
lodges, 

"Tama.  August  15,  1897.  I  am  waiting 
for  the  Thanksgiving  dance,  which  is  to  come 
off  soon.  The  Indians  have  been  holding 
their  preparatory  f eastings,  prayers,  and  sing 
ing.  When  all  the  gens  have  done  this,  then 
the  dance  will  come  off. 

"The  circus  came,  and  I  took  Patoka  and 
George  to  it.  The  old  man  was  more  than 
delighted,  and  it  would  have  done  your  heart 
good  to  see  his  pleasant  face  beaming  with 
pleasure.  I'm  going  to  see  him  this  after 
noon  and  talk  it  over  with  him. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I  have  gone 
so  far  without  eating  dog." 

Of  all  that  Jones  saw  and  learned  during 
this  visit,  the  real  core  and  significance  re 
main  a  secret.  The  Iowa  Foxes  initiated  him 
into  many  ancient  mysteries  of  their  religion, 
which  have  never  been  disclosed  to  a  white 
man.  Jones  committed  to  paper  an  account 
of  these,  with  sketches,  diagrams,  and  the 
[47] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

full  interpretation  which  probably  no  other 
man  could  have  supplied.  The  document  he 
then  sealed.  It  will  not  be  opened  until  the 
older  Indians  have  gone  to  their  fathers, 
taking  their  lore  with  them. 

For  the  present,  and  for  his  own  purposes, 
William  found  that  his  summer's  work  bore 
two  unmistakable  results.  He  had  learned 
first  that  his  Indian  people — whose  claims  on 
him  he  had  never  forgotten — admitted  gladly 
his  claims  on  them;  and  second,  that  his 
whole  life  from  childhood  had  formed  a  con 
tinuous  training,  the  purpose  of  which  ap 
peared  too  manifest  to  be  ignored.  How  best 
to  fulfil  this  purpose,  the  young  man  could 
not  as  yet  see  clearly.  But  when  in  the 
autumn  he  turned  East  again,  to  begin  the 
second  year  at  Harvard,  he  knew  that  hence 
forth  his  studies  would  not  lead  toward 
medicine.  He  should  return  to  the  Indians 
not  as  a  healer,  but  as  the  historian  of  their 
legends,  the  recorder  of  their  language,  and 
the  interpreter  of  their  most  reverent  beliefs. 


[48] 


VII 

HARVARD    1897-'98 

"COLLEGE  DAYS,"  at  their  wildest,  are 
never  quite  so  gay  as  they  are  painted,  or 
at  their  other  extreme  so  dull.  The  college 
days  of  a  man  who  foresees  their  outcome, 
and  turns  them  toward  it  with  any  constancy, 
often  appear  to  him  the  happiest  chapter  in 
his  life.  The  class-room,  the  laboratory 
bench,  the  late  hours  beside  the  green  lamp, 
are  all  movements  in  a  campaign;  and  even 
where  no  open  battle  is  offered,  he  remains 
continually  scouting  and  skirmishing,  testing 
his  own  forces  in  minor  engagements,  winning 
humble  heights,  or  at  least  discovering  some 
of  the  masked  batteries  against  which  he  must 
presently  march.  To  him  it  is  all  pith  and 
moment;  but  generally,  and  often  in  the  same 
proportion  as  he  becomes  victor,  the  history 
of  his  operations  will  contract  into  a  small 
page.  Strangers,  or  even  his  friends,  see  only 
the  main  route  he  has  traversed;  his  alarms 
and  excursions  leave  no  trace  on  the  map; 
and  when  he  has  won  his  destination,  he 
[49] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

seems  to  have  made  a  plain  journey,  leg  over 
leg,  as  the  dog  went  to  Dover. 

It  would  be  doing  the  memory  of  William 
Jones  a  poor  service,  to  present  him  as  a 
young  man  engrossed  in  the  details  of  his 
own  career.  For  one  who  worked  so  hard 
and  well,  he  left  an  uncommon  amount  of 
space  clear  for  friendship,  fun,  and  human 
by -play.  The  letters  already  quoted  will  have 
falsified  the  man,  indeed,  if  while  they  state 
in  his  own  words  the  motives  for  a  given 
decision,  or  carry  his  own  narrative  past  a 
given  point,  they  shall  have  pictured  him  as 
knitting  his  brows  in  self-absorption.  His 
doubts  and  troubles  he  wrote  down  only  when 
a  friend  had  the  right  to  know  them.  Happy 
at  some  good  fortune,  he  turned  quickly  to 
share  it  in  a  letter.  But  the  living  man  whom 
written  words  cannot  recapture, — the  man 
with  whom  one  talked,  sitting  on  a  window- 
seat  or  walking  in  the  open — was  the  most 
restful  and  refreshing  of  companions.  He 
could  throw  off  all  shadow  of  work,  to 
bask  in  wholesome  idleness.  With  slow,  quiet 
words,  and  bits  of  tranquil  gesture,  he  would 
discuss  any  subject  but  his  own  affairs.  And 
at  that  period  of  life,  when  youth  is  most 
busily  competing  for  the  future  or  playing  its 
[50] 


HARVARD    1897-'98 

private  Hamlet,  "Billy"  Jones  could  lead 
an  undergraduate  dialogue  farther  afield, 
and  invigorate  it  with  more  manly  humor, 
than  any  of  us  knew  the  secret  of  doing. 
"Lead"  is  a  mistaken  term:  rather,  he  en 
ticed  our  talk  along  with  a  word  or  a  smile 
now  and  then;  listened,  agreed  or  disagreed 
shyly;  often  did  no  more  than  look  on,  his 
brown  eyes  lighted  with  a  curious  twinkle, 
which  we  in  our  immaturity  let  pass,  but 
which  now  returns  full  of  meaning. 

In  his  letters,  and  in  them  not  often,  he  told 
of  his  own  work  and  perplexity.  "I  am  fear 
fully  rushed  now,"  he  wrote,  during  his  second 
year  at  Harvard.  "I  am  not  so  sure  about 
my  six  courses  as  ...  at  the  beginning. 
Anthropology  now  is  decidedly  slow  and 
stupid.  I  can't  tell  whether  it  is  hard  or  easy, 
because  I  am  not  sure  what  it  is  driving  at. 
I  devote  two  or  three  hours  a  week  to  work 
ing  up  the  notes  of  my  summer's  work,  with 
Dixon.  He  is  more  than  interested,  and 
thinks  the  material  in  every  way  good."  As 
may  be  imagined,  Jones  had  great  store  of 
experience  to  draw  upon  for  his  work  in 
English  composition.  "I  have  a  fortnightly 
theme  here  .  .  .  that  was  handed  me  to 
revise.  The  critic  seems  to  think  I  can  write 
[51] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

a  story  if  I  try  very  hard.  I  wrote  a  de 
scription  one  day,  'A  Round-Up  on  the 
Plains/  and  the  instructor  told  me  to  keep 
to  such  subjects,  for  that  was  almost  half 
the  theme.  .  .  .  One  or  two  on  Exposition 
and  Argument,  and  then  will  come  a  theme 
on  any  subject  we  may  want, — Western 
story,  Indian  story,  Love  story,  Blood,  or 
any  other  subject.  I  wish  I  knew  some  love 
plot  to  work  up.  Indian  stories  are  too  stale 
for  me  now,  particularly  after  I  get  done  with 
this  week's  folklore  writing.  ...  I  handed 
in  a  thesis  in  my  History  X  course  yesterday 
on  the  Indian  population,  so  that  I  am  dead 
sick  of  Indian  just  at  present."  Respite  was 
denied,  evidently,  for  elsewhere  he  complains 
that  he  must  "get  to  writing  something  for 
the  Folk  Lore  Club,  which  has  been  chasing 
me  for  the  last  two  months  for  something 
about  poor  Lo."  Attacks  came  from  unex 
pected  quarters,  and  took  his  few  spare  mo 
ments.  "A—  -  is  again  in  this  part  of  the 
country.  He  dropped  into  my  room  to  ask 
me  to  join  his  'Aboriginal  Society  for  the 
Advancement  of  the  Indian  Race.'  I  told 
him  I  was  flat  broke,  so  that  ended  that.  I 
didn't  know  it  before,  but  it  seems  that  there 
is  a  time  when  it  is  a  good  thing  to  be  broke, 
[52] 


HARVARD    1897-'98 

and  this  was  one  of  them."    Worse  than  all, 
the  bugbear  of  public  speaking  began  to  rear 
its  head  before  him.    An  audience  of  listeners 
was,  of  all  things,  the  one  for  which  Jones  had 
least  liking.     "When  there  are  so  many  men 
who  want  to  talk,"  he  once  lamented,  "why 
can't  they  let  a  man  who  wants  to  keep  still, 
alone?"     That  they  would  not,  many  pas 
sages  attest.    "The  Harvard  Folk  Lore  Club 
wishes  me  to  read  a  paper  before  it.     Holy 
Smoke!     I  put  them  off.  .  .  .     Mr.  Newell 
sent  me  word  that  he  wanted  me  to  deliver  a 
lecture.  ...     I  think  I   see  myself  speak 
ing!"    As  early  as  November,  1897,  he  was 
forced  to  consent,  and  "give  a  talk.  ...    It 
will  be  on  ideas  of  death,  the  soul,  etc.,  but 
there  will  be  a  discussion  of  general  things.  .  .  . 
I  haven't  had  time  to  work  up  my  notes. 
That  will  be  my  Christmas  vacation  work." 
Apart  from  these  troubles,  Jones  led  a  quiet 
life  at  college.    Athletics  of  the  usual  sort  he 
was  debarred  from,  not  only  by  his  work,  but 
also  by  the  injury  received  in  playing  foot 
ball  at  Andover.     "My  leg  is  bothering  me 
again,"  he  writes;  certain  ligaments  had  been 
torn,  "and  now  I  believe  the  bone  is  injured. 
It  doesn't  trouble  me  to  walk,  but  just  let  me 
try  to  run,  and  you  see  me  go  off  on  one  leg." 
[53] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

His  lameness  gradually  wore  away,  for  later 
he  was  able  to  say — "An  hour  every  day  in 
the  gym  and  a  half-mile  run  round  the  track, 
is  the  limit  of  my  exercise  now.  It  will  be 
increased  as  time  goes  on."  He  took  care 
after  this  fashion  to  keep  himself  in  good 
physical  trim;  often  went  to  church  on  foot, 
eight  miles  to  Boston  and  back;  and  some 
times  played  truant,  stealing  a  winter  holiday 
on  the  eve  of  examinations: — "I  have  been 
working  so  hard  that  I  got  where  I  could 
not  sleep.  This  morning  I  got  Charles, 
and  we  walked  all  the  morning  as  fast 
as  we  could  out  through  Allston  and  round 
by  Belmont  and  over  the  hills  behind  Cam 
bridge.  We  got  back  at  one,  in  time  for 
luncheon.  I  came  over  to  my  room  and  went 
straight  to  bed,  just  as  if  it  were  eleven 
o'clock  at  night,  and  slept  till  five."  At  an 
other  time,  with  another  friend,  Jones  made 
a  significant  little  pilgrimage,  honoring  the 
memory  of  the  Apostle  to  the  Indians: — 
"We  took  a  beautiful  walk  out  to  John 
Eliot's  grave,  the  little  town  and  the  site  of 
his  church  and  home." 

The   life   thus   pieced   together   reveals    a 
pattern  sober  enough,  even  for  the  busiest  of 
undergraduates, — a  tame  pattern,  surely,  to 
[54] 


HARVARD    1897-'98 

one  who  had  lived  as  a  plainsman.  The 
scholar's  gown  would  show  dismally  beside  a 
cowboy's  trappings  or  an  Indian's  blanket. 
Jones  was  none  the  less  happy,  and  indeed, 
was  never  touched  by  the  common  under 
graduate  discontents.  "Here  I  am,"  he 
wrote,  as  a  Freshman,  "here  I  am  at  Harvard, 
where  a  man  is  measured  for  what  he  is,  and 
not  for  what  society  has  made  him."  Through 
his  four  years  there,  and  through  the  nine 
remaining  years  of  his  life,  he  felt  for  the 
college  a  sentiment  unknown  to  care-free  or 
sophisticated  youths.  Homesick  he  proba 
bly  was,  with  a  mind  so  fond  of  dwelling  on  a 
past  so  different;  but  of  homesickness  there 
are  only  hints.  "To-day,"  he  notes,  during 
a  lonely  Christmas  recess  in  Cambridge,  "I 
stopped  at  a  book  store  and  saw  a  book  of 
drawings  by  Frederic  Remington.  I  fell  in 
love  with  it  on  the  spot,  but  it  had  a  price 
beyond  my  reach.  There  are  so  many  things 
in  that  book  that  bring  back  to  me  a  thou 
sand  reminiscences  of  the  days  before  I  was 
brought  east." 

It  is  droll  to  consider  that  this  young  man, 
who  had  known  hardship  and  danger,  and  was 
at  bottom  the  soul  of  quiet  courage,  could  be 
as  timid  as  a  boy.  Once,  while  at  college, 

[551 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Jones  found  to  his  dismay  that  he  must  pay 
a  call,  and  face  no  less  dreadful  creature  than 
a  girl.  This,  apparently,  was  worse  than  pub 
lic  speaking.  He  hated  the  necessity,  and 
put  it  off.  At  last  he  called;  to  his  relief, 
present  fears  proved  less  than  horrible  imagin 
ings;  and  there  followed  one  of  his  first  essays 
on  the  method  of  womankind.  "She  has  a 
nice  little  way  of  breaking  in,  when  you  tell 
her  anything  that  interests  her,  and  will  go 
on  by  herself.  She  makes  these  little  side 
tracks  so  interesting  that  you  almost  forget 
what  you  meant  to  tell  her,  and  behold  you 
find  that  both  are  talking  about  something 
entirely  different.  Thus  we  found  that  an 
hour  and  a  half  had  gone  by." 

Bashful  in  all  such  matters,  Jones  could  be 
ready  enough  upon  occasion.  And  now  an 
occasion  drew  near,  with  the  spring  of  1898. 
Men  who  were  at  Harvard  during  that  spring 
term,  remember  well  the  great  wave  of  excite 
ment  which  came  flooding  into  college,  and 
swamped  all  personal  or  academic  questions. 
At  first,  as  we  hurried  to  late  breakfast  in 
Memorial  Hall,  there  came  the  news  that  the 
"Maine"  was  sunk  in  Havana  harbor.  The 
fact  stared  out  from  black  headlines  on  the 
newspaper  stall,  which  stood  in  the  transept, 
[56] 


HARVARD    1897-'98 

directly  under  the  torn  battle  flags  of  an 
earlier  generation.  Before  many  days,  the 
black  letters  grew  larger  and  larger.  The 
spring  winds — to  judge  by  the  rumors  they 
brought — all  blew  from  Cuba.  And  by  the 
time  that  the  young  apple  trees  behind  Grays 
were  white  with  blossoms,  the  country  had 
rushed  into  war.  We  all  forgot  our  books. 
Lecturers  forgot  to  lecture,  and  talked  to  us 
like  Dutch  uncles.  Professors  of  psychology, 
of  history,  of  literature,  urged  us  to  keep  cool, 
saying  in  chorus:  "Don't  enlist!  This  war 
will  be  either  short  or  long.  If  short,  you 
would  be  raw  recruits,  a  needless  trouble  and 
expense;  if  long, — wait,  and  drill!"  It  was 
good  advice,  but  youth  will  be  served  with 
other  doctrine.  Awkward  squads — some  of 
the  awkwardest  ever  formed — already  were 
tramping  all  day  long  behind  the  gymnasium. 
A  '95  man  opened  a  recruiting  office,  into 
which  went  undergraduates,  and  out  of  which 
came  Rough  Riders,  whose  story  is  told  else 
where.  Various  men  left  college  for  the  war, 
some  of  them  never  to  come  back.  Flags 
appeared  in  the  Yard,  hanging  from  the 
window  of  this  or  that  study,  wherever  a 
room-mate  had  gone. 

The   outbreak   stirred   and   shook   us   all. 
[57] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Jones,  like  many  Bothers,  had  seen  it  coming 
far  ahead.  "Perhaps,"  he  had  written  in 
February,  "the  war  cloud  will  roll  over,  but 
if  anything  does  come  like  war  I  may  want 
to  go  into  the  army.  There  is  nothing  serious 
in  this  last;  it  is  only  a  dream,  which  might 
be  realized  in  case  war  does  come.  I  haven't 
told  anyone  else."  The  cloud  grew,  however, 
and  spread  nearer.  "If  I  am  needed,  and  can 
be  of  any  use,  as  I  told  you  before,  I  want 
to  go  into  the  army.  It  will  be  hard  of  course 
to  leave  the  pleasant  life  of  a  great  university, 
much  harder  still  to  leave  friends;  but  the 
words  of  General  Armstrong  come  into  your 
soul,  'Put  God  and  Country  first  and  your 
self  afterward.'  ;  By  April,  the  question 
absorbs  all  his  thought.  "I  feel  the  country 
has  done  a  disgraceful  thing  to  plunge  into 
this  war,  but  I  haven't  the  heart  to  remain 
comfortably  here  without  doing  something  to 
help  get  her  out  of  the  trouble  she  is  in.  ... 
This  is  the  hardest  thing  I  ever  tried  to  do." 
Within  three  days,  the  decision  became  still 
harder.  To  the  same  lifelong  friend,  who  had 
undertaken  his  education,  and  helped  him 
at  every  turning,  Jones  wrote  as  follows: 
"Mr.  Roosevelt  has  sent  word  that  he  wants 
ten  Harvard  men  to  be  with  him  in  his  troops 
[58] 


HARVARD    1897-'98 

of  cowboy  cavalry.  Men  have  come  to  see  if  I 
would  go."  He  tells  how  he  seized  the  chance, 
and  continues:  "I  do  feel  it  my  duty  to 
go.  ...  If  any  cavalry  troops  are  to  see 
fighting,  these  cowboy  regiments  will  see 
it.  ...  You  have  prepared  opportunities 
for  me  to  see  noble  and  beautiful  ideals.  I 
have  thus  far  enjoyed  innumerable  blessings 
and  have  gained  a  host  of  friends  ...  all 
these  things  only  through  you.  So  I  ask  you 
as  the  same  good  and  brave  mother  that  you 
have  always  been  to  me,  to  let  me  go  into 
this  war.  If  I  come  out  alive  you  will  be 
prouder  and  all  the  happier  because  I  fol 
lowed  what  I  thought  was  my  duty  to  my 
country.  .  .  .  You,  perhaps,  may  realize  what 
thoughts  come  through  my  mind  as  I  think 
of  being  in  these  troops  of  cowboys.  I  would 
thousands  of  times  rather  be  with  those  fellows 
than  in  any  regiments  of  college  men." 

With  all  these  motives,  and  more  which  we 
may  only  guess,  Jones  did  not  go  to  the  war. 
He  stayed  at  home  and  went  about  his 
work, — an  infinitely  harder  course  to  follow, 
but  a  course  which  he  felt  he  could  not  desert 
with  honor.  He  stayed,  recognizing  a  fact 
which  more  than  one  young  man  of  courage 
has  overlooked,  that  his  life  and  even  his 
[59] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

bravest  desires  are  not  always  at  his  own 
disposal.  The  early  summer  of  1898  Jones 
spent  at  Hampton,  where  he  saw  the  trans 
ports  come  back  to  Old  Point  Comfort,  bring 
ing  sick  and  wounded  men.  "Among  them," 
says  a  friend  who  was  with  Jones  at  this 
time,  "was  a  classmate,  a  splendid,  handsome 
fellow  who,  racked  with  pain  and  hardly  ex 
pecting  to  live  until  his  family  could  reach 
him,  said,  'I  tell  you,  Billy,  it  has  paid.' 
This  made  a  deep  impression  upon  Will,  and 
he  felt  he  would  gladly  have  changed  places, 
just  for  the  glory  of  it.  ..."  One  day, 
reading  a  list  of  the  dead  and  wounded,  he 
looked  up  at  the  friend  who  knew  what  an 
ordeal  he  had  passed,  and  said,  "There,  but 
for  you,  might  be  William  Jones."  He  paused, 
and  added,  "I  almost  wish  it  were."  And 
afterward  in  Cambridge,  as  he  and  the  same 
friend  were  passing  the  soldiers'  tablets  in 
Memorial  Hall,  he  asked,  with  a  laugh:  "Do 
you  realize, — that  for  you  I  gave  up  my  only 
chance  for  fame?  ' 

Had  he  foreseen,  he  might  not  have  spoken 
so.  The  close  of  his  life  showed — what  we  all 
knew — that  he  could  stay  in  his  duty  without 
considering  danger  or  renown. 


60 


VIII 

HARVARD    1898-1900 

DURING  his  four  years  at  Harvard  College, 
Jones  became  a  member  of  the  Signet,  Folk 
Lore,  Andover,  and  Hasty  Pudding  clubs, 
wrote  articles  and  stories — "Frederic  Rem 
ington's  Pictures  of  Frontier  Life,"  "Anoska 
Nimiwina,  a  legend  of  the  Ghost  Dance,"  "A 
Lone  Star  Ranger,"  and  other  pieces — for 
The  Harvard  Monthly;  became  an  editor  of 
that  magazine  in  1899-1900;  won  the  Harvard 
Advocate  Scholarship  "for  excellence  in  Eng 
lish  Composition";  wras  twice  appointed  Win- 
throp  Scholar;  and  at  the  last,  won  honorable 
mention  in  American  Archaeology. 

Other  youths  have  done  as  much  or  more. 
The  list  of  achievements — good  in  any  case, 
and  strange  enough  as  sequel  to  that  boyhood 
in  Katiqua's  wigwam — may  briefly  certify 
that  Jones  worked  his  way  through  college 
with  more  than  average  distinction.  It  is  not 
what  his  friends  remember  best.  As  there 
pass,  in  the  review  of  memory,  the  crowds  of 
men  whom  one  has  seen  at  college,  many  of 
the  most  conspicuous  among  these  will  take  a 
[61] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

transitory  shape,  and  reappear  but  as  men 
pressing  on  to  succeed, — cloaked  already  with 
success,  and  muffling  their  other  aspects  and 
lineaments;  only  here  and  there  a  man  re 
turns  as  he  was,  familiar,  complete,  clear,  his 
face  still  the  face  of  youth.  This  remains  the 
man  we  knew;  as  though  our  last  talk  to 
gether  had  been  yesterday,  or  all  the  missing 
letters  had  gone  back  and  forth  for  years. 
We  have  not  met  since,  but  there  is  no  change; 
here  stays  our  friend. 

It  was  always  so  with  "Billy."  Hard 
working  and  competent  though  he  was,  he 
reappears  not  like  one  of  those  half-hidden 
figures  in  transit,  but  with  his  old  presence, 
the  kindliest  and  most  likable  of  boys.  As 
he  crossed  the  Yard,  when  the  bell  rang  and 
crowds  filled  every  path,  there  was  little  in 
deed  to  single  him  out  from  the  rest  of  us. 
One  friend  who  came  to  know  him  only  in 
Senior  year,  had  often  seen  his  active,  muscu 
lar  figure,  and  without  having  heard  his  name, 
had  remarked  the  face  as  uncommonly  full  of 
character.  It  seemed  a  Celtic  face  to  this 
passer-by,  who  may  have  gathered  his  im 
pression  from  some  Welsh  trait.  Of  "Billy's" 
Indian  blood  one  never  thought,  and  seldom 
was  reminded,  even  on  close  acquaintance. 
[621 


HARVARD    1898-1900 

Those  wonderful  brown  eyes  of  his  were  not 
the  eyes  of  a  modern  white  man;  they  con 
tained  more  depth,  distance,  meditation,  and 
(especially  when  you  came  toward  him  un- 
perceived)  were  like  Indian  eyes  in  their  ex 
pression  of  steady  sadness.  To  meet  them, 
was  to  know  that  this  young  man  observed 
closely,  felt  strongly,  thought  much,  and  kept 
results  to  himself. 

Jones  was,  above  all,  an  observer.  His 
prairie  training  had  given  him  the  habit  of 
seeing,  and  his  sight  was  very  keen.  I  re 
member  that  once,  as  we  came  back  together 
from  a  long  winter  walk,  he  suddenly  peered 
ahead  through  the  dusk,  saying — "There's  a 
cat  in  that  tree."  The  tree  stood  across  a 
wide  road,  against  the  blackness  of  a  field,  so 
that — to  me  at  least — the  very  branches  made 
little  more  than  a  conjectural  mass.  Any 
cat  there  would  be  like  the  "black  cat  in  a 
dark  cellar"  of  metaphysics.  Billy's  remark 
seemed  to  be  either  pretence,  or  the  prologue 
to  some  mysterious  trick.  We  went  under 
neath  the  tree,  and  stood  on  a  fence,  before  I 
could  see  what  he  had  seen  from  the  dis 
tance, — a  cat  lying  flattened  along  one  of  the 
dark  boughs. 

On  another  evening,  between  late  spring 
[63] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

and  early  summer,  we  happened  to  cross  the 
Yard  from  Stoughton  toward  Sever  Hall, 
when  a  slight  rustle  in  the  foliage  called  our 
attention  overhead  to  the  top  branches  of  an 
elm.  Something  black  flitted  through  pieces 
of  starlight,  and  vanished  among  leaves.  I 
guessed  at  a  bird,  and  should  have  thought  no 
more  about  it.  "Wait,"  said  Billy.  "That's 
an  owl.  He's  flown  into  the  ivy  on  Uni 
versity."  Sure  enough,  the  ampelopsis  cover 
ing  the  front  of  that  building  began  violently 
to  shake  in  patches,  as  though  Minerva's  bird 
were  trying  to  find  a  perch  in  the  Faculty 
Room.  "He's  after  young  sparrows,"  Billy 
explained,  even  before  the  noise  reached  us, 
or  the  squeaking  of  tiny  victims  among  the 
vines.  He  had  foreseen  the  whole  transaction 
in  the  dark. 

His  past  life  made  him  all  the  better  com 
pany,  because  the  moments  when  he  spoke 
of  it  were  moments  of  perfected  friendship. 
Also,  at  this  period,  it  gave  sometimes  an  un 
expected  turn  to  events.  A  small  band  of  us, 
now  widely  scattered,  amused  ourselves  by 
walking  to  town,  dining  in  some  smoky  den, 
and  walking  roundabout  again  to  Cambridge. 
Once,  during  a  night's  entertainment  of  this 
sort,  we  happened  to  pass  a  miserable  little 
[64] 


HARVARD    1898-1900 

"museum,"  by  the  door  of  which  stood  one 
dressed  as  an  Indian,  in  fringed  buckskin, 
with  long  hair  flowing  on  his  shoulders. 

"  Go  in,"  said  somebody,  "and  talk  to  him, 
Billy." 

Our  friend  demurred,  but  presently  ap 
proached  the  grimy  fraud,  and  spoke  in  an 
unknown  tongue.  He  gave  the  good  old-time 
western  greeting, — a  request  for  a  chew  of 
tobacco. 

"Aw,"  replied  he  of  the  buckskin,  "I  don't 
remember  none  o'  that  stuff — been  too  long 
East  here." 

"Perhaps,"  Billy  suggested,  "we  don't 
speak  the  same  language." 

"That's  it,  I  guess."  The  other  visibly 
snatched  at  this  relief. 

"What  was  your  Agency?" 

"Pine  Ridge." 

"Oh,"  said  our  spokesman.  "Then" — and 
readily  addressed  himself  as  to  a  Sioux. 

The  man  fidgetted  under  his  fringes,  and 
again  pleaded  his  long  residence  in  the  East. 
We  had  turned  away,  when  one  of  our  party, 
who  had  missed  the  dialogue,  asked  if  the  fel 
low  was  really  an  Indian. 

"I  don't  know:  he  may  be,"  answered 
Billy,  in  his  charitable  fashion;  and  then,  by 

[65] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

an  afterthought,  stepped  back  into  the  gaudy 
entrance  of  the  museum.  Speaking  in  Eng 
lish,  and  with  a  manner  of  great  courtesy,  he 
let  fall  a  few  innocent-seeming  words. 

"That  so?"  replied  the  buckskin  man,  well 
pleased. 

Jones  came  out  and  rejoined  us,  laughing. 

"If  that  fellow  had  been  an  Indian,"  he 
explained,  "there'd  have  been  a  fight." 

Besides  enlivening  the  dullest  of  streets  with 
such  episodes,  Jones  could  find  means  of 
breaking  for  us,  as  nobody  else  could,  the 
deplorable  regularity  of  things  at  college. 
On  a  fine  afternoon,  for  example,  when  noth 
ing  clouded  the  June  sky  except  a  shadow  of 
approaching  examinations,  he  might  appear 
with  a  proposal  to  go  behind  the  scenes  at 
Buffalo  Bill's.  We  were  not  long  in  accept 
ing.  Three  of  us — it  may  suggest  something 
of  the  variety  in  Billy's  friendships,  to  say 
that  one  of  the  three  is  now  a  captain  of 
artillery,  another  a  surgeon  at  the  head  of  a 
children's  hospital — three  of  us  went  with 
him  into  the  green-room  of  the  Wild  West 
show,  a  green-room  open  to  the  sky,  car 
peted  with  trampled  grass,  and  crowded  with 
dressing-tents,  horses  and  harness,  Cossacks, 
gatlings,  buffaloes,  Indians,  and  Rough  Riders 
[66] 


HARVARD    1898-1900 

whom  Jones  had  known  in  "the  Territory." 
Here  we  sat  atop  the  Deadwood  Coach,  be 
hind  the  canvas  screen  of  the  arena,  and  felt 
the  bird-shot  hopping  on  our  hats  as  Miss 
Oakley  and  the  great  Baker  shivered  glass 
balls  in  air  with  their  rifles.  Here  we  met 
cowboys  who  welcomed  us,  in  part  as  Billy's 
friends,  in  part  because  they  had  fought 
alongside  Harvard  men  at  San  Juan.  Mc- 
Ginty,  rider  of  the  bucking  horses,  treated  us 
most  handsomely  on  Billy's  account.  Horses 
were  put  at  our  disposal,  both  in  joke  and  in 
earnest.  A  great  many  feathered  Indians 
were  standing  around,  aloof  and  silent.  Some 
body  proposed  going  up  to  them  and  opening 
talk.  "No,"  answered  Billy,  with  unusual 
curtness;  then  made  the  same  objection  that 
he  once  offered  to  the  late  Mr.  Remington's 
Hiawatha  pictures:  "They're  all  Sioux." 
Through  friendship  with  the  driver,  we  be 
came  passengers  in  the  Deadwood  Coach,  and 
when  our  turn  came,  trundled  into  the  arena 
past  a  long  line  of  mounted  Sioux,  painted  in 
wild  colors,  grinning  viciously,  and  each  man 
patting  the  revolver  on  his  hip  to  give  us  a 
foretaste.  The  band  struck  into  The  Arkan- 
saw  Traveler,  the  eight  mules  into  a  full 
gallop.  After  one  unmolested  circuit,  we 
[67] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

heard  a  "Yi-yi-yip!"  from  behind  the  canvas, 
and  saw  the  varicolored  ponies,  bodies,  and 
tossing  feathers  of  the  Sioux  burst  forth  from 
cover.  A  cowboy,  sitting  inside  with  us, 
pumped  his  Winchester  out  at  them,  but  they 
swooped  alongside  yelling,  and  fired  blank 
cartridges  through  the  window  close  enough 
to  burn  our  cheeks.  One  yellow-painted  sav 
age,  on  a  white  pony,  had  a  sharp  wooden 
spear,  used  in  a  former  "act"  to  prod  buffalo 
with.  This  he  jabbed  into  the  coach,  hitting 
our  future  surgeon  accurately  in  the  deltoid 
muscle.  "Hi  yi!"  cried  the  Sioux,  at  every 
jab.  "Hi  yi!"  cried  the  surgeon,  doubling 
into  a  ball  in  the  farthest  corner.  When  the 
flurry  was  over,  somebody  asked — "What 
were  you  saying  'Hi  yi'  for,  Nat?" — "I 
couldn't  think,"  was  the  answer,  "of  any  other 
remark!"  This  quaint  confession  seemed  to 
give  Billy  more  delight  than  anything  else  in 
our  afternoon  performance. 

Intermissions  like  this  were  not  frequent. 
Our  college  working-days  followed  each  other 
in  an  even  round.  Jones  was  busier  and 
steadier  with  his  books  than  the  rest  of  us, 
arid  accomplished  a  great  deal  more.  His 
free  moments  he  passed  in  various  quiet 
ways, — walking,  reading,  discussing  books  or 
[68] 


HARVARD    1898-1900 

life  at  large  with  the  other  editors  of  his  col 
lege  magazine,  or  perhaps  guiding  a  few  mem 
bers  of  the  Carlisle  football  team  (when  they 
visited  Cambridge  for  a  game)  to  the  house 
where  the  author  of  Hiawatha  lived.  Though 
fonder  of  listening  than  of  talking,  Billy  told 
stories  admirably;  indeed,  his  love  of  story 
telling  came  by  inheritance;  and  sometimes — 
not  to  any  but  close  friends — he  would  unfold 
narratives  of  former  days  out  West,  using  in 
the  Indian  mode  a  slow  and  eloquent  gesture 
in  place  of  adjective  or  verb.  To  one  man 
of  his  college  acquaintance,  he  explained  the 
language  of  signs,  so  that,  meeting  in  the 
Yard,  they  two  might  amuse  themselves  by  a 
secret  conversation  without  words. 

In  the  summer  vacation  of  1899,  Jones  re 
visited  his  birthplace.  He  made  but  a  short 
stay,  for  Oklahoma  was  at  its  hottest,  and  his 
old  fever  threatened  to  return.  He  suffered 
not  only  from  lassitude  but  from  disillusion. 
"I'm  going  to  get  out  as  soon  as  I  can/'  he 
writes  in  August.  "It's  too  hot,  and  there  is 
too  much  malaria.  Indians  don't  look  like 
Indians  any  more.  When  I  went  away  they 
used  to  look  so  well  in  their  Indian  costumes; 
but  now  they  are  like  tramps  in  trousers  and 
overalls  which  they  don't  know  how  to  wear. 
[69] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Indian  women  are  better  looking  because  they 
have  not  changed  their  dress  so  much." 

Senior  year  at  college,  beginning  soon  after, 
passed  quickly  and  happily.  In  June,  1900, 
Jones  was  graduated  from  Harvard,  and  by  the 
middle  of  July  was  taking  a  well-earned  holi 
day  in  the  White  Mountains.  His  immediate 
future  lay  straight  before  him.  He  had  sub 
mitted  to  the  Secretary  of  Columbia  Univer 
sity  an  application  for  a  scholarship,  by  aid 
of  which  he  could  hope  to  proceed  as  a  grad 
uate  student.  Indian  ethnology  was  to  be  his 
subject,  and  Professor  Franz  Boas  his  chief 
instructor.  His  good  friend  Professor  Putnam 
transmitted  the  application  to  the  Secretary 
with  the  following  letter: 

"Harvard  University, 

"Cambridge,  Mass.,  July  12,  1900. 
"DEAR  SIR: 

"Mr.  William  Jones  has  been  a  student  of 
good  standing,  and  he  received  his  A.  B.  this 
year.  He  has  taken  courses  in  American 
Archaeology  and  Ethnology  during  the  past 
three  years,  including  one  year's  work  in  my 
Research  Course,  when  he  made  a  study  of 
and  wrote  a  thesis  on  the  Massachusetts  In 
dians.  Mr.  Jones  came  to  Harvard  from  the 
[70] 


HARVARD    1898-1900 

Indian  School  at  Hampton,  where  he  won  the 
esteem  of  his  teachers,  who  have  continued 
to  take  an  interest  in  his  work.  He  has  had 
to  work  his  way  through  college  with  such 
assistance  as  he  has  received.  For  two  years 
he  held  the  Winthrop  Scholarship  in  this 
Department,  and  he  received  a  prize  from 
Harvard  for  English  Composition. 

"He  is  certainly  worthy  of  holding  a 
Scholarship  at  Columbia,  and  I  sincerely 
hope  it  will  be  bestowed  upon  him  that  he 
may  continue  his  chosen  research  under 
Dr.  Boas. 

:<  Yours  very  truly, 
"(Signed)  F.  W.  PUTNAM." 

Recommended  thus,  as  well  as  by  his  own 
record,  Jones  entered  Columbia  University  in 
the  succeeding  autumn,  and  was  appointed 
President's  University  Scholar  during  his 
first  year  of  graduate  study. 


[71] 


IX 

LIFE    IN   NEW   YORK 

IN  June,  1901,  Jones  received  from  Co 
lumbia  the  degree  of  A.  M. ;  in  July,  an  ap 
pointment  as  University  Fellow  in  Anthro 
pology  for  the  ensuing  year.  Meantime, 
Dr.  Boas  (then  head  of  the  Department  of 
Anthropology  at  the  American  Museum  of 
Natural  History)  had  obtained  for  Jones  a 
commission  to  carry  on  field  work  in  the 
West.  This  work,  which  was  to  occupy  the 
summer  months  of  1901,  consisted  of  "lin 
guistic  and  ethnological  investigations  among 
the  Sac  and  Fox  Indians,  and  if  circumstances 
should  demand,  among  closely  allied  tribes." 
The  Museum  provided  part  of  the  necessary 
funds,  the  National  Bureau  of  Ethnology 
furnished  the  remainder.  "In  your  work," 
Jones's  appointment  read,  "you  will  en 
deavor  to  collect  as  much  information  as 
possible  on  the  language  and  customs  of  the 
Sac  and  Fox,  and  obtain  as  many  specimens 
as  you  can  illustrating  the  ethnology  of  the 
people.  Your  collections  are  to  be  sent 

[731 


LIFE    IN    NEW    YORK 

to  ...  the  American  Museum  of  Natural 
History." 

Jones  lost  no  time  in  starting  for  his  field. 
The  ink  which  enrolled  him  as  Master  of 
Arts  was  hardly  dry,  before  he  had  settled 
among  his  former  friends,  the  Iowa  Foxes. 
From  Tama,  Iowa,  he  wrote  in  June: 

"I  am  writing  this  on  my  knee  just  outside 
an  Indian  summer  lodge.  The  time  is  about 
half  past  six  of  a  Sunday  morning.  I  have  not 
had  my  breakfast  yet.  The  breakfast,  how 
ever,  is  cooking.  One  reason  why  I  am  up  so 
early  is  because  I  have  not  yet  become  used 
to  the  smoke  in  my  eyes.  The  women  are  the 
early  risers.  They  make  the  fire,  and  while 
the  men  sleep  are  preparing  breakfast.  Isn't 
that  fine?  But  the  women  enjoy  it,  and  why 
shouldn't  they  be  let  to  do  what  pleases 
them? 

"How  many  people  can  you  count  on  your 
fingers  who  have  written  you  before  break 
fast?  You  deserve  a  nice  long  letter,  but  I 
am  not  promising  one  here  for  several  rea 
sons.  In  the  first  place,  I  hear  the  clank  of 
dishes  and  the  rattle  of  pans  and  spoons  and 
knives  and  forks,  and  I  know  not  what  minute 
I  may  be  called  to  come  and  eat.  Again,  the 
men  and  boys  are  rising,  and  it  won't  be  long 
[73] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

before  some  one  or  many  will  be  looking  over 
my  shoulders  to  see  what  manner  of  marks  I 
may  be  making  on  this  paper.  You  know 
yourself  such  is  not  conducive  to  an  easy 
letter." 

For  letters,  indeed,  the  young  scientist  now 
found  little  time.  He  was  "not  always  where 
there  is  a  post-office  at  hand";  he  lived  amid 
the  interruptions,  the  coming  and  going,  the 
visits  and  discussions  of  an  Indian  neighbor 
hood;  and  waiting  on  the  moods  of  this  chief 
or  that  medicine  man,  he  could  never  choose 
his  own  time  to  begin  work  or  to  break  off. 
We  may  picture  him  as  sitting  beside  some 
red  kinsman,  asking  and  answering  questions, 
exchanging  confidence,  and  seizing  every  pro 
pitious  moment  to  hear  the  ancient  stories 
told.  These  were  the  tales  of  his  grandmother 
Katiqua's  people,  from  remote  generations. 
No  man  could  understand  or  record  them  so 
fully  and  truly  as  Katiqua's  grandson.  But 
the  interpreter,  though  perfect  and  anfailing, 
could  not  command  the  living  sources  of 
legend  to  flow  at  his  own  pleasure.  A  tale, 
well  begun,  might  stop  again  and  again  at  the 
caprice  of  daily  events.  Letters  describing 
these  interruptions,  or  a  journal  with  the 
barest  jottings  of  them,  would  in  part  repay 
[74] 


LIFE    IN    NEW    YORK 

us  for  the  loss  they  caused.  Even  to  his  best 
friends,  however,  Jones  could  send  only  a 
chance  message.  "I  began  this  letter  on  a 
Friday,  and  now  it  is  Monday.  I  am  on  a 
long  Indian  story,  and  am  writing  you  this 
when  my  informant  is  not  at  hand."  "The 
character  of  my  work,"  he  explains  elsewhere, 
"is  such  that  I  have  to  keep  at  it,  though 
many  times  it  is  barren  of  results." 

The  summer  expedition  was,  in  the  main, 
highly  successful.  From  the  Iowa  Foxes, 
Jones  went  to  his  native  prairie  in  Oklahoma, 
where  he  not  only  levied  further  scientific 
tribute  among  his  relatives,  but  enjoyed  far 
better  health  and  spirits  than  during  his  visit 
of  two  years  before.  He  lived,  for  part  of  the 
time,  in  the  lodge  of  an  old  Indian  who 
claimed  a  double  kinship  by  marriage  and 
tribal  adoption,  and  who  could  impart  much 
hereditary  lore.  To  the  young  man's  delight 
he  was  given  the  use  of  a  fine  pony, — a  pony 
famous  through  no  mean  exploit,  for  it  had 
led  the  great  Oklahoma  rush  over  thirty  miles 
of  wild  riding.  Jones  often  sang  the  praises  of 
this  mount.  Meanwhile,  he  enjoyed  his  work 
and  did  it  well.  In  August  he  wrote:  "I  am 
expecting  to  be  in  the  field  until  the  20th  of 
September,  perhaps  later.  I  have  gathered  a 
[75] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

heap  of  stories  in  the  Indian  language,  and 
that  means  a  pile  of  work  for  me  this  winter 
when  it  comes,  to  get  them  ready  for  the 
Government  to  publish.  .  .  .  Malaria  has 
not  got  hold  of  me,  .  .  .  but  then  I  am  not 
going  to  play  with  fate,  for  the  game  is  not 
over  yet." 

Jones  returned  well  and  sunburnt  to  New 
York  in  the  autumn,  and  changed  himself 
back  from  plainsman  and  Indian  to  Uni 
versity  Fellow  at  Columbia.  His  quarters  he 
took  up  in  Lenox  Avenue  "not  very  near 
Columbia,"  as  he  said,  "and  a  long  way  from 
the  Museum;  but  I  have  a  good  room  to  sleep 
in,  and  a  good  table  to  eat  from,  and  so  am 
quite  contented  with  my  lot." 

In  November  he  joined  the  Harvard  Club, 
where,  a  few  weeks  later,  he  helped  to  give  "a 
reception  to  our  victorious  football  eleven  .  .  . 
and  a  merry  time  we  had  of  it.  I  met  in  with 
a  lot  of  fellows  I  know."  His  friends  in  New 
York,  it  would  appear,  saw  more  of  Jones 
throughout  the  winter  than  before,  although 
he  was  busier  than  ever.  "I  have  been  work 
ing  away  like  a  Trojan,"  he  writes  in  Decem 
ber,  "preparing  a  paper  to  be  read  next  week 
at  Chicago,  where  a  host  of  scientific  men 
meet.  Its  subject  is — Customs  and  Rites 
[76] 


LIFE    IN    NEW    YORK 

Concerning  the  Dead  among  the  Sauk  and 
Foxes.  One  of  my  Columbia  professors  is  to 
read  it;  'owing  to  unavoidable  circumstances 
the  author  cannot  be  present,'  etc.  The  man 
is  tickled  over  the  part  I  have  shown  him,  and 
he  thinks  it  will  do. — Christmas  Day  was  a 
quiet  one  for  me.  I  loafed  in  my  room  during 
the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  I  went  to 
the  Museum  of  Art  to  feast  my  eyes  and  de 
light  my  aesthetic  sense.  In  the  evening  I 
went  to  dine  with  a  college  class-mate  of 
mine.  .  .  .  His  family  are  in  New  York 
now;  they  are  from  an  old  Virginia  line,  and 
they  are  very  nice.  They  interest  me  very 
much.  .  .  .  About  the  dinner, — it  was  de- 
liciously  good  to  eat,  and  I  ate  till  I  had  a 
goodly  fill  and  was  as  contented  as  a  well-fed 
broncho. — I  must  tell  you  I've  just  finished 
writing  my  'speech.'  They  won't  hear  my 
little  bleat,  but  they  will  catch  the  idea  of  it. 
I  am  doing  a  pile  of  work  this  recess." 

While  Jones  was  thus  employed,  a  great 
happiness  had  befallen  him.  His  friends  noted 
the  effect,  without  guessing  the  cause,  until 
six  months  later  he  told  them  of  his  engage 
ment  to  Miss  Caroline  Andrus,  of  Hampton, 
Virginia.  From  now  on,  his  labors  had  a  new 
enthusiasm  and  a  new  purpose;  and  though 
[77] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

fate  cut  them  short,  we  know  what  happy 
devotion  sent  him  on,  like  the  Greek  hero,  to 
things  "higher  and  harder." 

"Busy!"  he  exclaimed,  with  gusto,  in  a 
letter  written  shortly  after  New  Years:  "I 
am  up  to  my  ears  in  work!  But  I  can  go  at 
it  with  a  vim.  ...  I  am  up  here  at  the 
Library  [of  Columbia],  busy  over  the  trans 
lation  of  the  Sauk  and  Fox  tales  that  must  be 
done  before  many  months  roll  round.  I  am 
planning  to  do  one  story  every  day.  Besides 
the  tales  there  is  the  ethnological  material 
that  must  be  written  up  too."  Thus  the  win 
ter  passed,  day  after  day  of  hard  study  and 
application,  though  not  without  some  variety, 
or  some  chance,  now  and  then,  of  seeing  an 
old  friend  or  making  a  new. 

"February  6,  1902.  A  week  from  Monday 
night  I  am  going  down  to  a  Mission  on  the 
East  Side  and  talk  to  a  men's  club.  Morrow 
and  I  have  a  friend  who  does  church  work  in 
that  section.  The  man's  name  is  Paine.  He 
is  a  Harvard  man  of  the  class  of  '97.  He 
wants  me  to  tell  about  the  West,  cowboys 
and  Indians.  The  more  graphic  and  exciting 
the  better,  he  says.  There  will  be  about 
twenty-five  men.  ...  I  have  done  several 
talks  this  year,  and  am  getting  lots  of  the 
[78] 


LIFE    IN    NEW    YORK 

'scare'  and  'fear'  driven  out  of  me.  But  my 
knees  are  pretty  limber  yet,  and  my  voice 
insists  on  clinging  deep  down  in  my  bosom. 

"February  18.  You  should  have  heard  me 
last  night  making  my  'speech!'  I  told  the 
man  in  charge  I  would  try  to  last  half  an  hour, 
and  what  do  you  think!  It  was  an  hour  be 
fore  I  got  warmed  up,  and  the  room  was  as 
still  as  death,  with  the  eyes  of  the  men  and 
boys  riveted  on  me.  When  I  let  up,  the  men 
fired  questions  at  me  in  a  way  as  if  they  had 
been  really  entertained.  I  was  told  after 
ward  that  it  is  seldom  anyone  has  been  able 
to  keep  the  boys  as  still  as  that.  I  told  them 
about  cowboys  and  Indians,  and  livened  up 
the  thing  with  a  stiff  incident  here  and  there, 
and  I  suppose  that  that  was  what  took. 

"March  12.  This  morning  I  have  devoted 
to  an  Indian  story,  translating  it  into  read 
able  English.  ...  I  went  to  the  Princeton 
Club  for  dinner,  and  later  to  the  Sportsman's 
Show.  I  had  a  good  meal  at  the  former,  and 
was  very  much  amused  and  entertained  at 
the  latter.  The  Indians  at  the  show  simply 
go  through  stunts  like  children  who  are  in  the 
game  for  the  fun  there  is  in  it.  I  go  down 
town  again  this  evening.  This  time  it  is  to 
the  Academy  of  Sciences,  to  hear  W talk 

[79] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

on  the  Condition  of  the  Indians.  I  hope  to 
see  some  one  there  whom  I  know  and  who 
will  know  the  speaker,  because  I  should 
like  to  have  words  with  him  for  about  one 
minute. 

"March  13.  I  heard  W-  -  last  night, 
and  after  the  talk  was  introduced  to  him. 

Dr.  B introduced  me,  and  you  will  smile 

at  the  exchange  of  words  and  moods.  It  was 
something  like  this: 

"Dr.  B .  'Mr.  W ,  let  me  intro 
duce  Mr.  Jones.' 

"Mr.  W ,  with  a  dead  man's  look  of 

indifference — 'Glad  to  meet  you.'  Then  he 
looks  away  and  half  turns  round  with  ribs 
toward  introduced. 

"Dr.  B .  'Mr.  Jones,  you  know,  is  the 

Sauk  arid  Fox  who ' 

"Mr.  W spins  round  with  face  full  of 

surprise.  He  grabs  hand  of  introduced,  and 
with  a  tight  prolonged  squeeze  exclaims — 
'Oh!  Oh!  Yes!  Yes!  I've  heard.  I— and— 
and — and  .  .  .  !' 

"Then  followed  a  shower  of  words.  .  .  . 
We  talked  for  a  few  minutes  on  some  things  I 
wanted  to  know  about.  After  the  meeting  I 
was  lugged  away  by  my  friend  Deming,  who 
took  me  down  to  his  studio  for  an  hour  or 
[80] 


LIFE    IN    NEW    YORK 

more.  ...  He  and  I  may  do  some  work 
together  some  day. 

"The  wind  is  wailing  outside  as  it  does  on 
the  plains,  and  it  strikes  a  chord  of  lonesome- 
ness  in  my  soul.  The  wind  is  always  wailing, 
singing,  screaming,  and  murmuring  out  there, 
and  when  once  you  get  used  to  its  sound  you 
never  forget  it.  It  reminds  me  of  my  past, 
with  all  its  curious  episodes  from  Indian 
camps  and  cow  camps  and  then  on  into  white 
folk's  schools.  Perhaps  it  is  fortunate  you  are 
not  here  now,  for  I  am  in  very  much  of  a 
reminiscent  mood,  and  might  torture  you 
with  tales  of  all  kinds. 

"March  21.  The  enclosed  card  [an  invita 
tion  to  a  meeting  of  the  Sequoya  League]  will 
tell  you  where  I  was  last  night.  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  a  man  I  had  been  want 
ing  to  meet.  The  man  is  the  illustrator  and 
artist  SchreivogeL  He  does  things  western, 
especially  where  Indians  and  soldiers  are 
fighting.  You  have  seen  his  pictures,  I  know. 
They  are  like  Remington's,  only  far  better. 
This  statement  has  reference  only  to  the 
pictures  in  action.  In  atmosphere  and  cow 
boys  and  ponies  Remington  is  king,  it  seems 
to  me.  Well,  the  man  and  I  exchanged  'jaw 
breakers/  to  use  the  Western  vernacular,  for 
[81] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

a  long  time.  Deming  and  I  went  over  to 
gether.  I  dined  with  him  and  his  family  at 
his  studio.  Afterwards  he  and  Schreivogel  and 
I  went  over  to  a  German  place  and  swapped 
stories  and  good  German  beer  through  clouds 
of  smoke. 

"The  Sequoya  League  is  a  pretty  name,  and 
that  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover  is 
its  best  thing.  An  interesting  young  Apache 
was  there,  and  he  and  I  scraped  acquaintance. 
He  is  one  of  the  Geronimo  prisoners.  I  hope 
to  learn  something  of  him,  and  have  asked 
him  to  come  to  the  Museum  to  see  me. 

"April  19.  I  have  just  come  from  Co 
lumbia,  where  there  was  a  big  blow-out  mak 
ing  a  President  out  of  Professor  Butler.  There 
was  a  host  of  learned  men  in  garments  of 
various  colors  and  of  various  degrees.  I 
ought  to  have  strutted  about  in  a  Master's 
gown,  but  chose  to  be  unostentatious  and 
went  in  my  ordinary  clothes.  I  joined  the 
crowd,  and  there  were  fine  looking  men  in 
abundance  and  handsome  women  were  a 
plenty.  President  Roosevelt  was  there,  and 
it  was  fun  now  and  then  to  see  him  'smile 
toothfully'  at  a  joke.  Presidents  of  the  col 
leges  were  there,  too,  and  chief  among  them 
was  the  very  dignified  Charles  William  Eliot, 

[82] 


LIFE    IN    NEW    YORK 

who  made  the  best  short  address  of  the  day. 
Music  sweet  and  soothing  broke  the  monotony 
of  the  speeches. 

"I  have  not  done  much  this  day.  I  went 
down  town  to  do  a  little  purchasing,  and 
dropped  in  on  Deming.  I  smoked  a  cigar 
with  him,  while  he  talked  about  pictures  and 
other  interesting  things.  He  is  a  bully  fellow." 

Mr.  Edwin  Willard  Deming  (well  known 
for  his  portrayal,  on  canvas  and  in  bronze,  of 
the  real  beauty  and  true  spirit  of  Indian  life) 
became  one  of  William's  best  friends  in  New 
York.  His  studio  in  MacDougal  Alley  heard 
many  a  long  talk  on  Indian  manners  and  be 
liefs,  saw  many  an  ancient  tale  put  into  ac 
tion,  and  many  a  prairie  game,  when  Jones, 
donning  wolf  skin  or  buffalo  horns,  romped 
in  play  with  the  artist's  children.  It  is  one  of 
the  best  traits  which  his  friends  recall,  that 
wherever  Jones  went,  he  made  the  young 
people  love  him.  His  letters  are  full  of  mes 
sages  to  them. 

Though  his  chosen  work  demanded  more 
and  more  from  him,  Jones  never  lost  his  habit 
of  reading.  He  ranged  through  all  conditions 
of  good  books,  prose  and  verse,  fiction  and 
philosophy.  In  stories  he  took  a  special  de 
light,  rendered  all  the  keener  by  his  profes- 
r  QO  i 

[  00  \ 


WILLIAM    JONES 

sional  knowledge  of  story -telling.  "Yes,"  he 
answers  a  correspondent,  "I  have  read  and 
have  had  read  to  me  Stevenson's  letters.  I 
like  them  very  much,  though  I  always  had  a 
strong  suspicion  that  there  were  others  which 
could  have  revealed  more  of  the  man  himself. 
Stevenson  is  one  of  the  men  I  can  read  at  any 
time  and  all  times.  No  one  could  beat  him 
at  a  story,  and  no  one  had  the  same  ease  and 
grace."  Later  in  this  busy  year  he  writes: 
"The  day  has  been  a  most  restful  one.  In 
the  morning  I  started  a  story,  and  read  a  lit 
tle  from  the  Psalms  of  my  Modern  Reader's 
Bible,  a  little  verse  from  the  second  series  of 
my  Golden  Treasury,  and  much  more  from 
your  'Kim.'  In  fact  I  do  a  little  reading 
almost  every  day,  but  not  all,  in  all  the  above 
works;  and  very  little  it  is,  but  enough  to 
keep  me  in  touch  with  the  human  side  of 
literature.  It  is  a  tremendous  temptation  to 
fall  away  from  good  reading  when  one  has 
every  hour  full  from  8.30  in  the  morning  until 
10.30  and  11  in  the  night." 

The  second  year  of  graduate  study  closed 
like  the  first:  Jones  was  not  only  re-appointed 
Fellow  in  Anthropology,  but  sent  West,  on 
much  the  same  terms  as  before,  to  spend 
another  summer  among  the  Sauk  and  Foxes. 
[841 


ON   THE   PLAINS 

JONES  reached  his  field  in  June,  1902,  and 
living  among  the  Indians,  began  once  more  to 
collect  "specimens"  and  preserve  legends. 
His  letters,  written  at  odd  moments  and  odder 
places,  tell  of  bad  weather,  delays,  and  dis 
appointment,  mingled  now  and  then  with 
success. 

"Tama,  Iowa,  June  22-29,  1902.  I  leave 
town  this  afternoon  and  make  my  home  in  the 
lodges.  ...  I  am  going  to  an  Indian  dance 
to-night.  .  .  .  Night  before  last  an  Indian 
told  stories  till  after  midnight,  while  the  room 
was  thoroughly  fumigated  with  tobacco  smoke. 
In  the  room  was  made  a  bunk  for  me  and  an 
other  for  the  yarn  teller.  The  air  was  thick 
enough  to  be  hacked  into  blocks.  I  thought 
I  should  die,  but  the  thing  to  do  is  not  to  show 
discomfort,  for  I  am  a  guest  and  must  now  do 
as  the  Foxes  do.  Most  lodges  are  well  venti 
lated,  but  that  was  a  house,  one  of  the  few 
good  ones  on  the  reservation.  You  would 
have  laughed  to  see  me  rise  this  morning  and 
do  my  dressing  under  a  blanket.  ...  I  have 
[851 


WILLIAM    JONES 

worn  out  all  the  soft  places  on  my  body.  .  .  . 
But  the  whole  thing  is  a  bully  outing,  and  I  do 
not  mind  so  long  as  I  do  not  come  in  bodily 
contact  with  creeping  insects.  I  use  ether  in 
my  hair  and  clothes.  ...  I  had  a  narrow 
escape  this  morning  from  a  delectable  bite  of 
cooked  dog.  .  .  .  Last  night  I  entered  the 
Ghost  Dance  Lodge,  where  a  parasitic  crowd 
of  Pottawattomies,  Chippewas,  Winnebagoes, 
and  others  were  dancing.  Of  course  I  took  no 
part  in  the  dance,  but  I  wondered  several 
times  what  I  would  do  if  an  Indian  came 
dancing  up  to  me  in  the  place  where  I  was. 
That,  you  know,  is  a  sign  for  the  one  seated 
to  rise  up  and  dance.  At  one  time  the  boom 
of  the  drum  was  so  lively  and  the  singing  so 
excited  that  the  Indians  were  dancing  like  mad 
and  whooping  war-whoops  like  warriors  in  a 
fight. 

"Last  night  I  slept  in  a  room  where  a  man 
had  the  floor  and  I  had  a  sofa.  Part  of  the 
time  he  slept,  part  of  the  time  he  lay  awake 
puffing  a  pipe,  and  very  much  of  the  time  he 
sang  bully  Indian  songs  through  a  husky 
nasal  voice.  He  succeeded  in  keeping  me 
awake.  He  got  up  very  early  and  roamed 
about  indoors  and  out. 

"Toledo,  Iowa,  July  17.    When  we  started 

[86] 


ON    THE    PLAINS 

from  Tama  for  Toledo  we  went  into  the  face 
of  a  fearful  windstorm,  so  thick  that  we  could 
scarcely  see  ahead  of  us.  It  began  to  rain  as 
we  entered  town,  and  just  as  we  drew  into  a 
feed  stable  and  under  a  roof,  a  tremendous 
downpour  came.  The  place  we  drew  into  is  a 
great  big  place,  covering,  I  should  say,  an  acre. 
It  is  a  place  for  putting  up  teams.  Up  at  the 
entrance,  where  it  is  light,  I  am  writing  this. 
The  thunder  is  cracking  outside,  and  the 
lightning  is  flashing  about  the  sky;  a  regular 
cannonade  is  on.  My  Indian  friend  sits 
about  two  feet  from  my  left  elbow,  his  legs 
crossed,  his  back  humped,  and  his  chin  in  his 
hands;  he  looks  as  if  in  deep  thought.  A  let 
ter  from  my  father  yesterday  says  he  may 
start  for  Iowa  the  last  of  this  week.  We  are 
great  chums.  I  think  he  has  a  fine  head.  I 
am  going  to  take  some  pictures  of  it,  front  and 
side  views.  It  always  reminds  me  of  Julius 
Caesar's,  but  with  the  tenderness  and  kind 
ness  of  the  youthful  Augustus'  head.  You 
know  the  ones  I  mean.  I  suppose  this  is  all 
imagination  on  nay  part.  People  who  claim 
to  know  me  say  I  have  strong  likes  and  dis 
likes,  and  that  I  am  likely  to  idealize  people  I 
like.  I  do  not  know,  but  you  will  know  when 
you  see  him. 

[87] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

"August  4.  Father  and  I  are  having  an 
interesting  time  in  the  Camps  visiting  the 
people.  The  Indians  are  extremely  hospi 
table,  and  they  entertain  with  ease  and  grace. 
Maple  sugar  is  one  of  the  great  foods,  and 
you  may  imagine  my  state  of  feeling  when  I 
catch  sight  of  it. 

"August  13.  I  went  to  the  camp  last 
evening  and  spent  the  night  there.  The 
lodge  is  one  of  the  flag-reed  kind,  shaped  like 
an  Eskimo  snow  hut,  and  I  tell  you  the  wind 
did  blow  against  the  lodge  and  the  rain  beat 
against  it  as  if  to  soak  it  through. 

"August  15.  Last  night  fell  a  tremendous 
rain,  and  the  water  splashed  through  the 
lodge.  ...  I  fled  in  town  to-day,  for  the 
chief  is  holding  a  dog  feast,  and  I  am  not  keen 
for  a  bite.  ...  I  should  probably  have  to 
pass  round  the  dainties,  for  when  the  Bears 
are  feasting  the  invited  clans,  the  Eagles  are 
attendants.  The  chief  is  from  the  Bear  clan, 
and  the  chief's  herald  or  runner  or  spokes 
man  is  an  Eagle. 

"September  19.  Kansas  somewhere.  The 
weather  has  been  extremely  cool  in  Iowa,  and 
now  as  we  pass  through  Kansas  I  am  begin 
ning  to  come  in  contact  with  the  familiar 
air  of  the  plains.  The  air  now  is  becoming 
[88] 


ON    THE    PLAINS 

warmer.  To-night  as  we  go  into  Oklahoma  it 
will  be  even  yet  warmer.  Familiar  types  be 
gin  to  board  the  train,  but  the  most  familiar 
will  not  show  up  for  about  six  hours  yet.  Now 
and  then  I  hear  the  smooth,  long-drawn-out 
drawl.  When  we  get  into  the  Territory  I 
shall  hear  heaps  of  it,  and  will  begin  to  look 
for  faces  I  know.  The  civilized  part  of  this 
plains  country  is  extremely  homely  to  me. 
The  houses  are  painfully  ugly,  and  the  trees 
and  grass  about  them  seem  to  be  pitied. 

"Shawnee,  September  22.  It  is  interesting 
here.  Sometimes  when  I  have  nothing  to  do, 
I  drop  into  these  gambling  resorts  and  see  the 
various  gambling  devices  and  notice  how  they 
are  played.  The  men  who  drop  in  to  gamble 
interest  me  too.  I  have  seen  all  kinds  of 
men  .  .  .  well  dressed  men  of  the  city,  slov 
enly  dressed  men  of  the  farms.  There  are  the 
broad-brimmed  hatted  cowboys  in  high-heeled 
boots.  Indians  in  varying  costumes  are  at  the 
tables,  too.  The  ages  of  the  gamblers  vary 
from  old  gray-hairs  to  youths  with  the  down 
yet  on  their  faces.  The  faces  of  some  are 
gentle  and  show  gentle,  pleasant  breeding, 
and  the  faces  of  others  are  severe,  brutal,  and 
untrustworthy.  I  don't  know  that  I  told  you 
that  everybody  drinks. 

[89] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

"Sauk  and  Fox  Agency,  Oklahoma,  Octo 
ber  1.  I  am  doing  nothing  more  than  loaf 
about  this  lazy  place.  I  have  not  struck  the 
sort  of  Indians  I  want.  Though  I  happen  in 
with  a  lot  that  are  of  no  use  to  me,  yet  I  am 
having  a  pleasant  time  in  one  way  and  an 
other.  I  meet  up  with  old  faces,  faces  that 
were  full  of  life  when  I  was  a  child,  and  are 
now  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  of  life — on  the 
downward  slope  of  that  hill.  I  visit  old 
friends,  and  they  are  cordial.  I  go  from 
house  to  house.  The  dogs  do  not  bother  me, 
which  is  a  wonder,  for  there  are  heaps  of  them. 

"November  14.  I  am  travelling  north, 
and  .  .  .  glad  that  I  am  on  my  way.  It  is 
growing  dark  on  the  prairies,  a  sort  of  thing 
I  like  to  see,  because,  somehow,  it  sets  my 
mind  to  recalling  past  scenes  of  childhood 
when  this  country  was  worth  while  living 
in. — Somewhere  along  this  road  we  will  eat 
supper.  There  is  a  beautiful  moon,  and  the 
view  is  beautiful  out  on  the  prairie." 

The  scene  quickly  changed.  Not  long 
afterward,  Jones  returned  to  New  York  and 
began  his  third  year  in  the  graduate  school  at 
Columbia. 


[90] 


XI 

AMONG   NORTHERN   INDIANS 

JONES  had  intended  to  "go  up"  without 
delay  for  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy. 
The  winter  of  1902-1903  found  him  working 
harder  than  ever,  holidays  and  all.  After 
long  hours  at  Columbia  or  the  American  Mu 
seum,  he  spent  the  evenings  over  his  doctor's 
thesis,  "plugging  away"  with  great  anxiety. 
"I  begin  to  see  the  monster,"  he  wrote,  when 
at  last  his  subject  grew  into  form.  The  com 
bat  was  deferred,  however,  by  a  change  of 
plans.  His  Indian  material  promised  well, 
and  his  instructors  urgently  advised  him  to 
make  his  treatment  of  it  thorough  and  de 
liberate.  He  therefore  put  off  his  degree  till 
another  year. 

Meanwhile,  to  lose  no  time  and  to  explore 
all  possible  sources,  Jones  made  a  short  visit 
among  the  Indians  at  the  Carlisle  school. 
Here,  in  February,  1903,  he  reports  himself 
as  "having  a  pleasant  time,  in  a  way,  with 
the  Sauks  and  Kickapoos.  They  are  ex 
tremely  cordial.  I  have  a  room  where  the 
Indians  drop  in,  and  they  gladly  give  almost 

[91] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

any  help  I  ask.  We  had  a  regular  story 
telling  bee  last  night,  and  I  learned  volumes 
of  things  I  had  not  known  before  among  the 
Kickapoos,  but  which  I  had  suspected. — 
March  2.  I  had  Indians  all  about  me  yester 
day.  To-day  the  Kickapoos  have  been  in  my 
room,  giving  me  a  good  deal  of  information. 
Both  the  boys  and  girls  are  as  nice  to  me  as 
they  can  be.  The  teachers  are  cordial,  too." 
For  the  rest,  Jones  passed  his  third  year  of 
graduate  study  much  as  the  first  and  second, 
though  his  work  increased.  It  was  a  red 
letter  day — usually  a  Sunday — when  he  man 
aged  to  see  a  friend  or  two.  Theatres  he  could 
visit  seldom,  and  then  only  "for  a  change,  to 
rest  my  head,"  perhaps  in  some  theatre  where 
"bad  acting  predominated."-  "But  I  don't 
mind  that,"  he  writes.  "I  get  nearly  as  much 
entertainment  watching  the  people,  to  note 
how  the  acting  strikes  them.  Queer  people 
get  into  the  boxes,  and  I  like  to  see  the  joy 
they  get  out  of  their  self-sufficiencies,  and  the 
way  they  exchange  salutations.  ...  It  is  the 
kind  of  audience  that  hisses  the  villain." 
Next  might  come  an  evening  at  the  house  of  a 
professor,  "with  other  students,  being  taught 
Chinook";  a  long  talk  about  Indian  life  and 
Indian  pictures  with  Mr.  Deming;  an  after- 
[92] 


AMONG    NORTHERN    INDIANS 

noon  conference  of  the  learned  at  the  Museum; 
a  quiet  hour  at  the  Harvard  Club;  or  a 
smoker,  at  which  "anthropologists  round 
these  parts  assemble,  to  burn  up  the  Doctor's 
cigarettes  and  cigars,  and  drink  his  beer,  and 
eat  his  foods." 

In  the  spring,  the  authorities  at  Carlisle 
made  a  very  generous  reply  to  a  request  from 
Jones,  and  sent  a  Kickapoo  boy,  with  whom 
he  could  do  "language  work,"  and  study  as 
in  a  living  book  lent  from  some  inaccessible 
library.  Jones,  worn  with  other  studies,  had 
threatened  to  "rush  him  as  fast  as  he  will  let 
me";  but  in  point  of  fact,  he  treated  most 
carefully  and  kindly  this  young  volume  of  old 
knowledge.  "The  Kickapoo  lad  arrived,"  he 
writes  on  May  11,  "and  yesterday  I  took  him 
out  to  Bronx  Park  to  see  the  animals.  In  the 
evening  I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  take  my 
man  to  Grace  Church.  It  was  pretty  warm 
for  my  friend,  and  he  did  not  have  to  urge  me 
to  go  out  into  the  cooler  air.  We  went  to  the 
Demings'  studio. — May  13.  My  Kickapoo 
and  I  are  at  it  pretty  much  all  the  time.  He 
is  full  of  information. — May  15.  This  even 
ing  I  took  my  Injun  for  a  long  walk  up  to 
125th  Street  to  see  the  sights.  ...  We 
bought  tickets  to  see  Joseph  Jefferson  in  The 
[93] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Rivals  to-morrow  night.  My  Injun  and  I  are 
getting  piles  of  stories.  He  is  a  jim-dandy, 
just  full  of  yarns,  and  a  very  nice  boy,  too." 

When  the  year  closed  at  Columbia,  and  the 
young  Kickapoo  had  gone  home,  Jones  con 
trived  to  see  his  friends  at  Hampton.  Here 
he  took  a  holiday  of  some  weeks.  A  letter 
written  aboard  ship  on  his  return  to  New 
York,  contains  a  highly  characteristic  pas 
sage: 

"June  23.  After  breakfast  I  went  into  the 
smoking-room.  .  .  .  Three  men  were  telling 
tales  of  experience,  and  between  whiles  dis 
cussed  subjects  of  many  kinds.  One  man  in 
terested  me  particularly.  He  was  from  North 
Carolina.  He  had  been  in  the  Rockies  in  the 
early  days,  and  some  of  his  yarns  were  of  ex 
periences  out  there.  Since  then  he  had  seen 
service  on  the  sea.  He  was  a  storehouse  of 
information.  He  talked  with  good  sense  and 
much  detail  in  politics,  law,  government,  ag 
riculture,  and  betrayed  a  fine  sense  of  humor. 
The  old  fellow  did  not  speak  the  King's  Eng 
lish,  but  his  words  were  racy,  to  the  point,  and 
pat.  After  a  while  two  well  dressed  young 
men  came  in  and  sat  down  at  my  right.  Pres 
ently  they  began  talking  about  psychology 
and  biology,  and  I  felt  like  booting  them  out 
[941 


AMONG    NORTHERN    INDIANS 

of  the  room;  but  it  soon  seemed  that  their 
discussion  was  to  be  in  an  undertone  and  so 
did  not  interfere  with  the  more  interesting 
tales." 

In  New  York,  Jones  had  a  few  hurried  days, 
buying  "a  six-shooter,  a  cowboy  hat,  a  rubber 
coat,"  and  other  articles  of  outfit.  The  Amer 
ican  Museum  was  sending  him  west  again,  on 
a  more  difficult  mission:  he  was  to  travel 
through  the  region  of  the  Great  Lakes,  and 
the  farther  country  on  both  sides  of  the 
Canadian  border,  wherever  he  might  find 
Indians  living  the  old  life  or  recalling  it.  His 
commission  was  a  roving  one,  his  journey,  in 
some  measure,  a  journey  of  discovery.  The 
Indians  would  be  scattered,  especially  during 
the  summer  season;  and  even  in  their  settle 
ments,  they  would  show  varying  degrees  and 
effects  of  contact  with  white  men.  Jones 
could  not  choose  beforehand  the  places  most 
fit  for  his  purpose.  He  could  only  go  and  see, 
experiment,  scout  and  learn. 

From  Sault  Sainte  Marie,  he  began  his 
search  by  going  to  Kensington  Point,  the 
scene  of  the  annual  Hiawatha  play,  where  he 
did  an  errand  for  the  Museum,  and  made 
friends  with  certain  visiting  Indians.  The 
play  itself  he  dismissed  impatiently,  saying 
[95] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

that  he  had  never  seen  "so  much  pretension 
of  knowledge  about  Indians  with  so  much 
ignorance."  Jones  took  far  greater  pleasure 
in  the  company  of  an  "old  Hudson's  Bay 
employe,  George  Linklater.  He  is  Scotch  and 
Indian.  He  knows  pretty  much  all  the  coun 
try  between  here  and  Hudson's  Bay,  and  can 
speak  the  various  dialects  of  the  region.  He 
has  given  me  an  interesting  tale  or  two  of  his 
experiences.  I  may  propose  his  name  for  a 
probable  companion  in  the  trip  to  Labrador.* 
He  is  the  type  of  the  old  frontiersman  of  our 
country,  the  sort  I  imagine  my  grand-daddy 
and  his  kin  were." 

Grand  River,  Manitoulin  Island,  Spanish 
River,  were  the  first  places  where  Jones  tried 
to  find  a  few  Indians  knowing  the  old  life. 
The  rest  of  what  he  called  his  "summer  gad 
ding"  took  him  north-about  round  Lake 
Superior,  through  Manitoba,  North  Dakota, 
Wisconsin,  and  Minnesota,  down  to  his  old 
friends  and  kinsmen  the  Iowa  Foxes. 

"Thessalon,  Ontario,  July  8.  Lake  Huron 
looked  still  and  quiet.  I  wanted  to  go  out  on 
some  rock  and  sit.  The  nights  are  beautiful 
now.  Last  night  I  turned  in  at  two  in  the 
morning.  Kabaoosa,  the  Indian,  and  I  sat 

*  A  proposed  expedition,  which  Jones  never  made. 

[96] 


AMONG    NORTHERN    INDIANS 

out  in  front  of  his  house  and  talked  on  and 
on.  He  told  me  tales,  and  I  exchanged,  and 
thus  the  hours  of  the  night  flew  by.  We  be 
came  good  friends.  .  .  .  This  man  Kabaoosa 
is  of  the  family  that  gave  Schoolcraft  the 
material  from  which  Longfellow  made  his 
Song  of  Hiawatha.  Kabaoosa  gave  me  In 
dian  versions  of  things  used  in  the  poem. 

"Nepigon,  Ontario,  July  17.  I  met  some 
Indians  from  Albany  River.  They  came  down 
in  canoes.  We  had  a  great  time  talking  to 
each  other.  They  don't  always  understand 
me,  and  I  don't  always  understand  them,  but 
we  manage  to  get  along  pretty  well.  The 
Indians  speak  a  mixture  of  Cree  and  Ojibway. 
Often  I  can  understand  a  whole  streak,  and 
then  at  times  I  don't  get  a  bit. 

"I  am  constantly  overcome  with  the  things 
I  see  in  this  grand  Lake  country.  I  want  to 
see  even  what  is  more  wild,  back  up  in  the 
forests,  lakes  and  rivers. 

"Fort  William,  Ontario,  July  22.  I  went 
straight  for  the  Indian  reservation,  which  is 
about  two  miles  from  here.  I  found  the  peo 
ple  exceedingly  mild  and  kind,  which  was  only 
in  keeping  with  what  I  have  found  among 
these  Ojibways  all  along.  I  never  saw  In 
dians  so  willing,  so  kind  in  their  hospitality. 

[97] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

I  met  an  old  French  half-blood,  Penassie  by 
name,  who  took  me  round  among  the  people. 
He  will  make  some  things  for  me,  traps  to 
catch  bear,  skunk,  mink,  and  so  on,  and  other 
things  in  the  way  of  games  and  the  like. 

"Mine  Centre,  Ontario,  August  3.  Most 
of  the  boarders,  at  least  they  who  make  their 
presence  felt  the  most,  are  English.  I  came 
near  to  being  rude  several  times.  They  talk 
about  things  in  general  in  such  a  superficial 
manner,  and  about  all  the  earth  in  such  a 
condescending  way,  that  it  is  not  always  easy 
to  remain  within  hearing.  But  their  intona 
tion,  and  their  style  of  pronunciation,  and  the 
way  they  do  it,  are  enough  to  limber  the 
stiffest.  Actually  I  laughed  twice  at  table, 
even  though  I  was  a  stranger  to  those  present. 
I  could  not  contain  myself.  One  Englishman 
tickles  me  even  to  look  at  him:  he  is  a  glorious 
freak. 

"Portage  La  Prairie,  Manitoba,  August  7. 
I  drove  out  into  the  country  to-day  and  saw 
the  Indians  of  Long  Plain.  They  are  Ojib- 
ways,  and  a  primitive  lot.  ...  [A  certain 
official]  went  along.  He  was  no  use  to  me,  and 
I  am  sorry  not  to  have  taken  an  Indian. 
Some  Sioux  have  a  village  two  and  a  half 
miles  south  of  here.  They  are  Santee  Sioux. 
[981 


AMONG    NORTHERN    INDIANS 

They  came  here  after  the  Minnesota  massa 
cre,  and  have  been  here  ever  since,  afraid  to 
go  back.  They  are  different  from  Ojibways. 
The  0  jib  way  is  the  more  aggressive,  more 
conservative,  and  more  pagan.  The  Indians 
were  very  cordial  to  me  to-day.  The  [certain 
official]  was  dumbfounded  to  see  me  talking 
away  to  the  Indians  in  a  tongue  unknown  to 
him.  I  doubt  if  he  understands  me  yet.  He 
has  learned  that  I  was  brought  up  on  a  cow 
ranch,  among  Indians,  at  Harvard  and  Co 
lumbia,  and  I  am  sure  he  does  not  under 
stand. 

"August  8.  I  visited  the  Sioux  this  morn 
ing.  The  poor  things  feel  they  are  exiles,  I 
am  sure.  I  talked  with  one  old  man,  and  he 
learned  I  had  seen  some  of  his  people.  His 
feelings  were  pretty  strong,  and  his  emotion 
was  deep.  I  gathered  a  good  deal  from  his 
broken  speech  and  vague  gestures.  It  sur 
prised  me  to  find  he  knew  nothing  of  the  sign 
language,  which  the  western  part  of  his  people 
knew  so  well. 

"Dunseith,  North  Dakota,  August  16. 
This  town  lies  flat  in  a  prairie  valley.  .  .  . 
The  nights  are  quiet,  only  the  wail  of  the 
wind  as  it  sweeps  past  the  corners.  I  was  re 
minded  of  the  old  Indian  Territory  last  night 

[99] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

as  I  lay  half  awake  thinking  of  many  things, 
and  hearing  the  cry  of  the  wind.  Many  a 
night  have  I  gone  to  sleep  with  the  wind 
lulling  me.  I  wish  I  could  explain  why  it  is 
and  in  what  way  the  wind  affects  me  so.  I 
used  to  miss  it  at  Hampton  and  at  Andover, 
but  I  think  I  was  weaned  of  it  at  Harvard. 
It  cries  a  little  in  the  day  time,  but  not  so 
much  as  at  night.  .  .  . 

"I  got  to  Dunseith  yesterday  at  noon,  and 
called  on  the  Indians  I  came  to  see  in  the 
afternoon.  They  live  in  a  very  pagan  manner 
among  the  hills  north  of  the  town,  called  the 
Turtle  Mountains.  ...  I  passed  the  Agency 
on  coming  out  here.  The  agent  met  me  on 
the  way.  He  eyed  me  in  the  characteristic 
manner  agents  use  when  I  first  approach 
them.  Their  first  attitude  makes  me  feel  like 
a  rattlesnake  or  something  to  be  shunned. 
But  they  collapse  into  their  own  forms  again 
when  they  know  that  my  mission  has  nothing 
to  do  with  their  affairs.  [This  agent]  turned 
out  to  be  a  very  pleasant  old  man. 

"Churche's  Ferry,  N.  D.,  August  21.  I 
got  some  very  nice  things  from  the  Turtle 
Mountain  Ojibways.  I  made  friends  with 
several,  and  it  was  a  bit  touching  the  way 
some  of  them  bade  me  good-by. 
[100] 


AMONG    NORTHERN    INDIANS 

"I  got  fond  of  Dunseith.  The  wide  sweep 
of  the  prairies  I  got  from  the  hills  must  be  the 
reason.  It  is  a  magnificent  sight,  and  I  do 
not  know  when  I  have  seen  quite  the  like, 
unless  it  was  in  old  Oklahoma  before  the 
opening.  At  evening  at  the  time  of  dusk  a 
huge  feeling  of  vastness  would  take  posses 
sion  of  me.  I  had  begun  to  understand  why 
the  Indians  were  so  fond  of  the  particular 
place  where  they  are  now.  It  seems  that  the 
tribes  used  to  gather  in  the  hills  about  Dun 
seith  and  hold  great  ceremonies.  Coyotes 
yelp  at  night  yet,  and  it  was  a  satisfactory 
sensation  to  listen  to  the  old  familiar  sound 
I  used  to  go  to  sleep  to. 

"September  29.  The  frost  has  nipped  the 
birch  and  poplar  and  red  oak,  and  I  wish  I 
could  describe  to  you  the  beautiful  soft  yellow 
of  the  birch  and  poplar  leaves,  and  how  rich 
the  crimson  is  on  the  leaves  of  the  oak.  We 
paddled  by  miles  and  miles  of  color  on  both 
sides  of  us.  It  has  been  a  long  time  since  I 
have  eaten  so  much  wild  meat. 

"Tama,  Iowa,  October  15.  [Among  the 
Foxes.]  I  arrived  here  this  morning,  and  it 
seems  like  coming  back  to  a  place  where  I 
have  always  lived.  People  greeted  me  in  a 
very  generous  manner,  and  the  Indians  were 
[101] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

even  more  demonstrative.  I  had  the  chief 
and  his  head  men  at  dinner  with  me,  and  we 
talked  in  a  pleasant  way  almost  all  the  after 
noon.  .  .  .  You  should  see  how  people  look 
and  stare  when  Indians  come  and  greet  me 
and  go  round  \\Tith  me." 

A  few  weeks  later  Jones  was  in  New  York 
again,  helping  at  the  Museum  and  the  college. 
He  spent  the  Christmas  holidays  of  1903  at 
Hampton,  Virginia. 


[102 


XII 

DOCTOR   OF   PHILOSOPHY 

PRIVATE  examination  and  public  ceremony 
did  their  best,  on  June  8,  1904,  to  change 
William  Jones  into  a  Doctor  of  Philosophy. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  received  his  de 
gree,  in  the  company  of  many  other  studious 
young  men  and  women,  a  cloud  of  professors, 
chairmen,  and  grand  marshals  lending  dignity 
and  security,  while  fiddlers  played  the  Salut 
d* Amour.  Jones  took  the  process  with  a  good 
grain  of  humor.  From  his  thesis,  or  disserta 
tion — "Some  Principles  of  Algonkin  Word 
Formation" — he  said  that  he  gained  pleasure. 
"It  is  different  from  temperamental  writing. 
I  am  always  put  on  my  guard,  must  not  make 
statements  that  cannot  stand  alone.  Good 
discipline,  no  doubt.  But  the  thing  is  really 
amusing.  Think  of  it,  a  grammar  on  an  In 
dian  tongue  that  will  never  be  used  on  this 
green  ball  except,  perhaps,  by  a  few  special 
students  who  may  only  finger  over  the  pages 
and  chuck  it  aside  with  the  most  indifferent 
feeling  in  the  world."  At  the  same  time  he 
had  worked  his  hardest,  "anxious  to  do  it 

f  1031 


WILLIAM    JONES 

fully  in  as  brief  a  manner  as  possible,"  and 
wishing,  for  the  sake  of  his  readers,  he  "had 
a  style  that  would  rivet  their  eyes  till  the  last 
page  was  read!"  His  preparation  was  "the 
severest  affair  I  have  ever  gone  through.  .  .  . 
I  am  deep  in  mire  trying  to  fill  my  head  full 
of  all  kinds  of  knowledge."  His  oral  examina 
tion  before  a  long  table  of  wise  men  so  dazed 
and  excited  him  that  he  could  "hardly  recall 
even  the  questions  asked,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  answers  I  made.  The  moment  I  would 
pull  myself  together,  my  mouth  would  be 
come  as  dry  as  a  powder-horn,  and  I  could 
hardly  speak.  I  was  skinned  alive  ...  a 
very  formal  proceeding."  He  had  faced  the 
ordeal  seriously,  he  was  glad  of  his  success. 
"And  now  I  am  to  be  classed  in  that  group  of 
men  known  as  Doctors  of  Philosophy.  The 
title  is  only  a  term,  but  it  means  a  heap."  It 
meant  to  him,  above  everything,  a  prompt 
and  lively  sense  of  gratitude  toward  those 
friends  who  had  given  him  his  start.  "Now 
that  the  game  is  over  and  I  have  won,  it  is 
only  natural  that  I  should  think  of  them  first 
of  all."  But  he  did  not  set  too  high  a  value 
on  his  winnings.  Never,  when  he  could  pre 
vent,  would  Jones  allow  himself  to  be  called 
Doctor. 

[104] 


DOCTOR    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

His  own  attainment,  the  sincerity  of  his 
purpose,  his  respect  for  all  true  scholarship, 
admitted  no  trace,  even  temporary,  of  the 
scholar's  pride.  Jones  loved  plain  Anthropos 
the  man  better  than  Dr.  Anthropologist. 
Born  and  reared  in  the  open,  he  did  not  en 
joy  what  is  called  the  "educational"  atmos 
phere.  "I  whiled  away  about  two  hours,"  he 
writes,  "  'beating  the  air'  with  my  pedagogical 
friends  at  the  Sunday  dinner  table.  I  wonder 
if  I  have  ever  described  them  to  you?  You 
know  people  very  often  betray  their  profes 
sion  by  the  style  of  the  garment  and  the  man 
ner  of  wearing  the  same,  by  the  speech  and  by 
the  attitude  toward  things  in  general.  The 
class-room,  like  the  motion  to  adjourn,  takes 
precedence  before  all  matters  for  talk.  These 
dominies  talk  class-room  at  breakfast,  the 
same  at  noon,  and  heat  it  up  for  supper. 
There  is  no  harm  done,  the  excitement  is 
innocent  enough;  but  like  a  boiled  potato 
three  times  a  day  for  seven  days  in  the  week, 
it  actually  tends  toward  monotony."  And 
again:  "I  am  touching  on  a  side  of  life  which 
I  feel  a  great  hunger  for.  I  long  for  the  com 
panionship  of  fellows  I  used  to  know  in  my 
last  year  at  college,  like  Henry,  and  Colonel, 
and  Bill.  It  is  like  green  pastures  when  I  get 
[105] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

with  Bill  and  the  Colonel  at  odd  hurried 
moments,  these  days.  My  scientific  friends 
(classmates  and  fellow-students)  are  all  right, 
it  is  only  myself  sort  of  out  of  gear."  Jones 
had  made,  and  continued  to  make,  warm  and 
lasting  friendships  among  the  men  of  his 
profession:  always  with  men  who,  like  him 
self,  did  the  most  thorough  work,  but  who 
like  himself,  at  the  close  of  day  could  brush 
off  the  class-room  chalk  or  the  Museum  dust, 
and  cheerfully  rejoin  the  outer  world.  "  When 
ever  Jones  and  I  finished  our  afternoon," 
said  one  of  these  colleagues,  "and  went  out 
for  a  smoke  and  a  glass  together,  there  was 
no  longer  any  such  thing  as  Anthropology  on 
the  face  of  the  globe." 

After  getting  his  doctor's  degree,  Jones 
worked  as  hard  as  ever,  in  the  city  heat,  on  a 
grammar  of  the  Fox  language,  on  the  proofs 
of  his  thesis — afterward  published  in  the 
"American  Anthropologist" — and  on  many 
preparations  for  the  field.  He  kept  long 
hours,  yet  managed  to  see  his  friends,  dine 
with  them,  beat  them  at  revolver  practice  in 
a  shooting  gallery,  paddle  canoes  with  them 
up  the  Hudson,  and  snatch  a  brief  holiday  on 
the  Maine  coast,  though  even  there  he  began 
writing  a  treatise  to  be  read  (by  somebody 
[106] 


DOCTOR    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

else,  we  may  be  sure!)  before  a  congress  of 
scientists  in  St.  Louis.  His  own  summer  read 
ing  was  in  a  book  which  interested  him 
greatly, — "Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,": 
by  the  late  William  James. 

The  close  of  July  found  him  travelling 
westward  by  train,  in  high  spirits  at  the  sight 
of  green  country,  and  of  people  who  looked 
"as  if  they  lived  close  to  the  earth  and  its 
doings."  His  letters,  penciled  in  haste,  hold 
many  a  thumbnail  sketch  of  his  fellow  pas 
sengers  and  of  fleeting  scenery.  Among  these 
passages,  two  reveal  their  writer  in  opposite 
moods,  both  strongly  in  character.  The  first 
episode  came  when  Jones  met  some  Jack-in- 
office  at  a  railway  station.  "Do  you  suppose 
I  could  get  anything  from  the  stupid  Eng 
lishman  behind  the  glass  window?  I  asked 
politely,  and  was  as  considerate  as  one  could 
be.  I  wanted  to  know,  first,  the  fare  from 
Sudbury  to  Garden  River.  He  said  he  did 
not  know  if  it  cost  one  dollar  or  a  thousand. 
I  began  to  boil  under  my  white  hat,  but  kept 
steady,  and  asked  him  to  tell  me  the  distance 
between  the  two  places.  He  threw  a  time 
table  out  at  me.  I  was  pretty  well  heated, 
but  contained  myself,  \vent  to  a  seat,  and 
began  to  work  the  table  out;  got  to  a  point 

[107] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

that  stuck  me,  and  so  went  to  the  bear  to  get 
a  little  light.  He  began  his  performance 
again.  I  let  fly  a  piece  of  English  and  asked 
him  out  on  my  side  of  the  window.  He  did 
not  come,  but  he  got  jolted  into  enough 
decency  to  give  information." — The  second 
episode  took  place  in  a  railway  car.  "Across 
the  aisle  was  a  mournful  looking  girl  of  about 
eighteen,  with  a  doleful  aunt  with  two  or 
three  children.  They  spent  the  time  crying, 
the  aunt  and  niece,  and  talking  about  one 
departed.  .  .  .  The  seat  in  front  of  me  was 
vacant.  After  many  risings  and  sittings  the 
niece,  a  pretty  brunette,  came  over,  and  in 
many  ways  sought  attention  from  the  man  in 
the  white  hat  behind.  Finally  she  asked  how 
far  to  a  certain  station;  I  looked  in  my 
schedule  sheet  and  told  her.  She  sighed  a 
deep  sigh,  and  told  a  pitiful  story  of  a  journey 
she  was  making,  and  how  long  it  was  seeming. 
She  got  a  telegram  last  night,  she  and  her 
aunt,  that  her  little  brother  was  drowned, 
and  for  them  to  come.  She  was  starving  for 
sympathy.  I  talked  with  her,  and  used  all 
kinds  of  devices  to  turn  her  mind  away  to 
other  things,  but  of  no  avail.  She  was  a  pretty 
little  thing,  with  jet  black  hair  and  deep, 
mellow  eyes  that  talked  volumes.  She  was 

[108] 


DOCTOR    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

simple-minded,  with  a  delightful,  naive  man 
ner,  a  poor  girl,  and  had  some  store  position 
in  Sault  Ste.  Marie.  It  tore  my  heart  to  see 
her  in  so  much  grief.  I  wish  I  could  have 
lightened  her  burden." 

Our  traveller  now  began  the  summer's 
work,  visiting  his  Indian  friends,  old  and  new, 
on  either  side  of  the  Canadian  border.  "It  is 
a  pleasure  to  come  back  here,"  he  wrote, 
"and  have  the  people  welcome  me  in  the  de 
lightful  way  they  do."  Garden  River  he  had 
a  hard  time  leaving,  the  Indians  were  "so 
cordial,  so  entertaining,  so  friendly."  Jones 
met  with  many  "genuine  story-book  char 
acters,"  both  white  and  red,  who  told  him 
freely  the  strange  narrative  of  their  lives. 
He  saw  with  delight  the  various  panorama 
of  outdoors,  where  "lofty  islands  stand  in 
bold  relief  against  a  mist  and  cloud  of  back 
ground  on  the  lakeward  side,  and  on  the 
other,  hillsides  of  tall  evergreen";  or  "country 
where  one  can  get  as  lonely  and  disconsolate 
as  one  pleases  ...  distance  after  distance, 
dreary  wastes  of  stunted  growth,  and  what 
remains  of  dense  forests,  where  fires  have 
passed  through  and  left  tall,  bare  trees  stand 
ing  dead."  The  Ojibways  beyond  Thunder 
Bay  made  him  welcome  once  more;  and  once 
[109] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

more  he  "dwelt  at  court"  in  the  old  chief 
Penassie's  log  house.  Jones  pitched  hay  for 
his  host,  or  watched  his  hostess  while  she 
traded  pickerel  and  suckers  for  eggs.  He 
gave  medicine  to  the  sick,  wrote  state  papers 
for  the  tribe,  attended  their  long  night  coun 
cils.  Penassie  was  "chock  full  of  all  kinds  of 
lore,"  so  that  inside  his  house  there  was  much 
talk,  much  writing  down  of  tales  told  slowly 
and  broken  by  the  arrival  of  Indian  gossips. 
The  telling  was  marked,  however,  "with  very 
fine  artistic  skill.  I  have  one  tale  in  particu 
lar,"  Jones  wrote,  "which  keeps  me  guessing 
all  the  time.  All  of  the  stories  are  naive  and 
unconscious.  I  don't  know  if  my  narrator 
(old  Penassie)  is  an  artist,  or  if  it  is  the  genius 
of  the  O  jib  was  that  makes  these  stories  so 
good.  Suggestion  is  resorted  to  with  fine 
effect,  and  it  is  never  studied.  For  artistic 
effect  I  have  no  Sauk,  Fox,  or  Kickapoo  story 
to  come  up  to  the  standard  of  some  I'm  now 
getting.  ...  Of  course  I'm  taking  the 
stories  down  in  Indian  .  .  .  already  more 
than  two  hundred  pages  of  text,  and  I  am 
sure  of  as  much  again."  Thus  the  days  were 
busy;  not  so  the  nights.  "The  old  chief  one 
evening  took  me  out  to  walk  with  him  and 
showed  me  some  of  his  realm.  In  a  moment 
[110] 


DOCTOR   OF    PHILOSOPHY 

of  extreme  friendliness  he  let  fall  some  re 
marks  to  the  effect  that  he  wished  I  would 
come  and  live  here,  take  to  myself  a  wife  and 
be  one  of  the  people;  that  he  would  give  me 
some  land  and  allow  me  all  the  rights  of  his 
people.  The  poor  old  man,  of  course,  is 
ignorant  of  the  big  world  outside.  .  .  .  The 
village  is  as  silent  as  a  graveyard  at  night; 
lights  are  out  early.  The  chapel  bell  is  about 
the  only  thing  in  the  village  to  interrupt  the 
silence."  By  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
Jones  had  usually  undressed  under  his  blan 
kets,  in  a  corner  opposite  "the  royal  bunk," 
where  he  could  hear,  in  the  darkness,  the 
chief's  family  telling  their  beads. 

Up  Rainy  River  to  Pelican  Lake  a  "rather 
hard  and  barren"  journey  brought  Jones  into 
the  wilderness,  where  he  camped  among  some 
pagan  Bois  Fort  O  jib  ways.  These  gave  him 
so  much  valuable  information  that  he  was 
"kept  busy  day  and  night,"  besides,  as  he 
said,  "having  the  time  of  my  life."  The 
Indians  vied  with  each  other  to  have  their 
spoken  words  recorded,  so  that  the  young 
doctor's  note-books  were  filled  up  at  wonder 
ful  speed,  until  November  brought  the  north 
ern  winter.  "The  Indians  seemed,"  wrote 
Jones,  "to  dislike  my  leaving.  They  gave  me 

[mi 


WILLIAM    JONES 

a  dance  for  a  send  off.  They  had  tried  to  get 
me  to  dance  on  various  occasions  before,  but 
this  time  I  gave  in  to  please  them.  Inci 
dentally  I  'got  onto5  a  new  step.  I  have 
another  which  .  .  .  looks  like  a  ghost-dance 
step  with  back  bent  forward,  arms  free  and 
swinging  back  and  forth,  and  the  dancer  mov 
ing  sidewise  one  way  and  then  back  again, 
now  receding,  now  coming  forward.  It  is  an 
eye  opener,  and  I  hope  to  spring  it  on  you 
some  time  when  no  one's  around.  The  women 
have  a  cunning  step  which  I  should  like  to 
know.  Their  skirts  are  so  low  that  I  cannot 


see." 


From  Bois  Fort  and  these  parting  festivi 
ties,  Jones  "came  out  through  ice  and  snow" 
to  the  Agency  at  Leech  Lake.  There  he 
found  a  "warm  hazy  Indian  summer"  still 
lingering;  good  company  and  "very  delight 
ful"  surroundings;  a  helper  in  Joe  Morrison, 
"an  old  Carlisle  boy  and  the  best  interpreter" 
he  had  met  among  the  Ojibways;  cordial 
visitors,  Indians  from  Bear  Island,  who  took 
him  to  see  a  medicine  dance  of  the  Midiwi win ; 
altogether,  a  chance  to  round  out  "a  vast 
amount  of  excellent  myth  material," — so  full, 
indeed,  and  recorded  with  so  much  fidelity, 
that  Jones  might  well  permit  himself,  as  he 
[112] 


DOCTOR    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

almost  never  did,  to  feel  "very  satisfied"  with 
his  own  part  of  the  work.  Already,  he  had 
done  for  0  jib  way  lore  what  no  other  man 
could  do.  His  only  comment  was:  "The 
language  of  the  texts  is  very  pure,  I  am  sure." 

Late  in  November,  Jones  travelled  to  Okla 
homa,  for  the  purpose  of  revisiting  the  Sauks 
and  Foxes.  From  Shawnee,  he  wrote:  "The 
air  is  soft  and  the  sunshine  warm,  a  great 
contrast  to  the  northern  woods.  The  wind 
wails  just  the  same  as  it  used  to  when  I  was  a 
child.  The  wind  cries  on  these  plains  in  a  way 
different  from  anywhere  else.  Last  night  the 
train  stopped  several  times  on  the  broad 
prairies,  and  at  once  my  ear  caught  the  old 
familiar  moan.  It  started  up  a  thousand 
recollections."  He  stayed  in  this  home  coun 
try  for  a  few  weeks,  to  complete  his  account 
of  the  Sauks  and  Foxes,  their  language  and 
their  material  culture,  by  collecting  whatever 
he  could  find  concerning  their  religion.  This 
done,  Jones  went  "over  into  the  Seminole 
country  after  two  slabs  of  stone  bearing  on 
them  the  figures  of  human  foot-prints";  and 
then,  bringing  to  its  end  a  highly  successful 
expedition,  he  turned  back  toward  the  white 
man's  world. 

Most  of  the  difficulties  under  which  our 

[113] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

friend  worked,  are  of  necessity  omitted  in  this 
account.  Some  of  them  may  be  gathered 
from  the  following  letter,  written  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1904: 

"My  dear  Deming:  I  am  glad  to  get  the 
letter  that  came  this  morning  and  another 
that  came  about  six  or  eight  days  ago.  .  .  . 

"I've  had  the  finest  kind  of  luck  since  my 
last  letter  to  you.  The  old  chief  has  given 
me  some  dandy  tales,  and  now  I'm  getting 
some  good  things  on  the  old  time  religious 
worship.  I  could  do  more  and  faster  work 
but  for  a  mob  that  lives  in  the  loft  overhead. 
His  grandson  married  a  young  woman  of 
very  uncertain  morals  but  with  a  goodly  host 
of  relatives  by  blood  and  otherwise.  She  and 
the  crowd  occupy  the  upstairs  of  the  cabin, 
and  it's  like  a  thunder  storm  by  day  as  well  as 
by  night.  Damn  their  lazy  hides,  if  I  had 
but  an  inch  of  authority  I'd  fire  them  p.  d.  q. 
They  sponge  off  the  chief,  and  do  it  in  the 
most  cold  blooded  manner.  Sometimes  they 
get  up  energy  enough  to  move  to  the  bush  to 
pick  berries,  and  you  should  behold  the 
caravan — four  women,  two  men,  two  children 
is  the  least  number.  I  don't  mention  the  dogs. 
They  get  good  money  for  the  berries — 50  cents 
for  a  small  pail  holding  three  or  four  quarts. 

[1141 


DOCTOR    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

Instead  of  buying  food  and  clothing  they  blow 
it  in  for  booze.  They  sober  up  before  they 
arrive  on  the  premises,  that  is  sober  up  enough 
to  make  what  they  consider  a  proper  entry. 
But  the  look  of  booze  is  all  over  them.  The 
old  chief  is  perfectly  straight  and  never  drinks, 
and  it's  only  his  good  easy  nature  that  pre 
vents  him  from  having  the  whole  gang  pulled. 
But  they  stood  too  long  on  that  good  nature 
last  night.  They  had  been  on  a  debauch  of 
several  days,  and  last  evening  when  the  old 
man  had  told  off  his  beads  and  gone  to  bed, 
here  the  damned  outfit  came,  and  they  seemed 
to  try  to  stamp  the  stairs  through.  They  were 
having  a  regular  rough  house  time  of  it  up 
there,  while  the  young  wife  of  the  grandson 
was  doing  a  stunt  of  her  own.  The  old  man's 
ear  caught  the  sound  of  her  whistle  through 
the  din  above,  and  he  rose  to  find  her  signal 
ling  to  a  lover  out  in  the  moonlight.  Without 
any  ceremony  whatever  he  grabbed  the  young 
woman,  turned  her  face  the  other  way,  and 
booted  her  up  the  stairs.  Of  course  she  was 
surprised.  She  once  made  an  attempt  to  hit 
the  old  man  with  a  lacrosse  stick.  I  don't 
know  but  that  she  did  land  him  one  over  the 
ear.  But  about  the  same  time  the  old  fellow 
dashed  a  cup  of  water  in  her  face,  and  you 

[115] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

should  have  heard  the  yell  that  went  forth 
from  some  one.  'Blood!  blood!  Go  get 
Simon ! '  Simon  is  a  policeman.  The  girl  and 
the  old  man  then  started  for  Simon's.  The 
old  man  is  about  70,  but  he  gave  the  girl  a 
run  for  her  fun.  She  tried  to  pass  him,  but 
her  wind  gave  out.  *  Come  on !  Run !  Run ! ' 
yelled  the  old  man.  But  the  run  did  no  good, 
for  Simon's  ears  were  deaf  to  both.  To-day 
is  calm,  but  the  storm  will  break  out  when  the 
young  husband  returns  home.  He  went  off 
for  a  two-weeks  trip  to  fish.  The  old  man 
came  back  mad  as  a  hornet.  You  could 
have  heard  a  gnat  breathe  upstairs  after  the 
rumpus;  it  was  as  silent  as  the  tomb.  I  shall 
lie  about  here  for  another  week,  and  then  I'll 
pull  for  some  place  on  the  Rainy  River.  .  .  . 
"...  I  think  I've  enough  trout,  whitefish, 
pickerel,  and  pike  to  last  me  for  a  while, 
though  I  might  go  the  trout  and  whitefish  a 
little  longer.  I  refuse  sturgeon,  but  I  don't 
know  why.  .  .  .  The  Smith  and  Wesson  is 
all  you  say  it  is.  Crows  inside  of  a  100  yards 
get  it  where  they'll  never  get  it  again,  or  else 
they  get  out  in  a  hurry  never  to  return.  The 
chief's  wife  would  have  cooked  a  crow  for  me 
the  other  day!  I  made  myself  clear,  you  bet, 
that  she  needn't  cook  any  crow  for  me.  The 
[116] 


DOCTOR    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

chief  said  they  were  good,  for  he'd  always 
eaten  them !     But  we  had  no  crow. 

"I  am  glad  that  all  is  going  well  with  you 
in  the  way  of  work.  It's  good  to  hear  that 
Mrs.  Deming  and  the  girls  are  well.  Re 
member  me  to  them,  won't  you?  .  .  .  Give 
greetings  to  Mr.  Hall, — and  much  luck  and 
good  health  to  yourself. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"UNCLE  BILLY." 

The  year  1904  closed  very  happily  for 
Jones.  He  reached  Hampton  and  his  Vir 
ginia  friends,  his  nearest  and  dearest,  in  time 
for  the  Christmas  merry-making. 


[117] 


XIII 

THE    QUESTION   OF   MONEY 

"AN  honorable  poverty,"  according  to 
Gibbon,  long  sufficed  to  keep  the  Roman 
soldier  hard  and  valiant.  More  than  one 
young  man  of  science,  in  America,  has  been 
loaded  with  the  same  austere  benefit.  The 
young  men  follow  their  profession  through, 
make  the  usual  sacrifices,  and  put  the  best 
face  on  the  matter.  But  sometimes  it  is  a 
pity.  Sometimes,  were  the  poverty  a  little 
less,  the  honor  might  be  greater, — not  to  the 
men,  but  to  the  national  cause  in  which  they 
are  engaged.  There  is  grievous  loss,  at  any 
rate,  when  a  man  like  Dr.  Jones — young,  full 
of  power,  full  of  promise,  given  by  nature 
incomparable  qualities  for  a  certain  work, 
anxious  to  justify  his  long,  costly  training — 
when  such  a  man  must  wait,  and  forego,  and 
cast  about.  Jones  was  ardently  willing  to  put 
forth  "that  one  talent  which  'tis  death  to 
hide."  Our  American  republic  is  both  a 
stingy  and  a  careless  master.  One  instance, 
well  stated  by  Mr.  Dillon  Wallace,  may  indi- 
[118] 


THE    QUESTION    OF    MONEY 

cate  the  nature  of  our  loss.  "Doctor  Jones 
desired  very  strongly,"  writes  Mr.  Wallace,* 
"to  accompany  the  last  Outing  expedition 
into  Labrador,  that  he  might  live  there  for 
two  or  three  years  with  the  northern  Nas- 
caupees;  but  funds  necessary  to  meet  the 
expenses  were  not  forthcoming,  and  he  was 
forced  to  relinquish  his  plan.  Had  he  lived  to 
return  from  the  Philippines  he  would  un 
doubtedly  have  done  this  neglected  work  in 
ethnic  research  among  the  most  primitive 
North  American  Indians  of  to-day.  There  is 
no  one  else  half  so  well  fitted  as  was  Doctor 
Jones  to  do  it,  and  it  is  now  improbable  that 
it  will  ever  be  done,  or  at  least  thoroughly 
done,  and  the  world  is  so  much  the  poorer." 

This  research  in  Labrador  was  not  the  only 
work  which  Jones  was  ready  for,  and  failed  of. 
The  year  1905  brought  him  much  disappoint 
ment  and  uncertainty.  He  had  accomplished 
great  results,  but  only  on  temporary  commis 
sions,  renewed  from  year  to  year.  Jones 
naturally  wished  to  see  his  way  toward  per 
manent  appointment,  to  stay  in  his  Algonkin 
field  where  he  was  most  needed,  and  staying 
there,  to  earn  such  a  living  as  would  make 
possible  his  marriage.  He  was  always  brave 

*  Outing  Magazine,  June,  1909. 

[119] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

and  hopeful;  many  active  friends  were  watch 
ing  his  career,  wishing  to  further  it;  but  as 
one  of  them  said,  "the  whole  ethnological 
situation  of  the  country"  was  clouded,  the 
outlook  far  from  bright.  A  place  in  the  Bu 
reau  of  Ethnology  at  Washington  might  have 
enabled  him  to  devote  his  life  to  a  study  of 
the  Algonkin  stock.  No  such  position  was 
ready.  The  late  George  Rice  Carpenter,  of 
Columbia — whose  name  is  gratefully  remem 
bered  by  many  young  men — would  have  per 
suaded  Jones  to  write  an  Indian  novel,  or  a 
collection  of  essays,  presenting  Indian  life  as 
viewed  through  Indian  eyes.  In  time,  Jones 
might  have  written  such  a  book, — who  knows 
how  wonderfully?  But  time  was  lacking: 
once  again,  our  loss.  Meanwhile,  he  could 
earn  a  living,  and  little  more,  by  doing  con 
stantly  the  hardest  kind  of  work. 

There  were  moods  of  discouragement.  A 
year  before,  Jones  had  been  offered,  and  had 
seriously  considered,  a  position  as  Indian 
agent;  and  once  it  was  only  half  in  joke  that 
he  proposed  "if  things  cannot  and  will  not 
turn  up,  to  go  West  and  grow  up  with  the 
country."  These  moods  were  not  the  man. 
Out  of  dragging  disappointment  he  writes — 
"I  am  really  enjoying  my  work  .  .  .  writing 

[1201 


THE    QUESTION    OF    MONEY 

up  my  Sauk  and  Fox  stuff."  He  was  "quite 
content"  with  his  Ojibway  collection  of  texts. 
As  for  the  future,  the  lack  of  professional 
openings — this  door  to  which  he  had  been  so 
carefully  led,  only  to  find  it  locked — he  felt 
that  "the  whole  situation  [was]  exceedingly 
absurd."  He  could  always  see  humor,  even 
in  a  personal  situation. 

Thus,  when  obliged  to  "declaim,"  before 
brother  scientists,  "on  the  religious  concep 
tion  of  the  Manitou  among  the  Central  Algon- 
kins,"  he  reported  the  meeting  as  follows: 
"There  were  four  speakers  .  .  .  and  the  au 
dience  was  about  eight,  making  two  apiece  for 
each  blower.  The  thing  seemed  at  first  as 
though  it  was  in  for  all  night.  The  first 
speaker  up  was  a  German,  and  he  droned 
away  a  full  hour.  I  squeaked  for  ten  minutes 
and  then  slept  through  the  other  two  speeches. 
I  simply  did  what  the  other  eight  did.  We 
all  woke  up  at  the  end,  and  found  it  nearly 
eleven  o'clock." 

Such  dormouse  entertainment  was  not  for 
him.  We  have  a  better  picture  of  the  man  off 
duty,  as  he  appeared  to  a  friend  who  knew  him 
well,  and  who  saw  much  of  him  at  Mr.  Dem- 
ing's  studio  in  McDougal  Alley.  The  place 
was  like  home  to  him.  "Uncle  Billy,"  our 


WILLIAM    JONES 

informant  writes,  "had  his  own  ring  of  the 
door  bell;  and  when  he  gave  it,  there  was  a 
wild  scramble  among  the  little  Demings  to  see 
who  would  get  to  the  door  first.  Often  he  had 
to  wait  until  they  were  untangled.  Mean 
while,  Uncle  Billy  was  thinking  up  a  way  to 
add  to  the  confusion;  and  as  soon  as  the  door 
was  open,  there  would  come  the  loud  roar  of  a 
lion,  or  a  buffalo  would  charge  through  the 
little  people,  rush  to  the  fire  place,  where  he 
would  find  some  convenient  cast  off  buffalo 
horns,  which  he  would  appropriate,  and  com 
mence  chasing  little  Demings  (as  he  called 
them,  'Little  Wolves')  all  over  the  studio, 
butting  them.  They  played  until  'The  Sky 
Woman '  (as  he  called  the  mother)  announced 
dinner,  which  offered  a  relief  to  the  shattered 
nerves  and  the  fractured  quiet  of  the  big, 
weird  barn  silence  in  the  Deming  studio. 
Uncle  Billy  was  tired  first,  so  he  had  to  pay 
the  forfeit,  a  good-night  story  after  dinner; 
and  then  the  little  ones  were  packed  off  up 
stairs,  and  Uncle  Billy  with  the  others  rested 
and  wondered  at  the  peaceful  quiet.  But 
Uncle  Billy  loved  the  romp  most! 

"The  children  loved  Uncle  Billy's  'Fraid 
Heart'  story  best  of  all;  and  when  there  was 
turkey  or  chicken  for  dinner,  the  'Fraid 


THE    QUESTION    OF    MONEY 

Heart'  had  to  be  carefully  divided  so  each 
child  would  have  his  share. 

"The  summers  were  long  when  Uncle  Billy 
had  to  be  in  the  Field.  The  letters  were 
eagerly  looked  for  and  read  aloud  so  the  little 
people  would  hear  too;  and  when  Fall  finally 
came,  and  the  expressman  threw  trunks  and 
bags  marked  'W.  J.'  at  the  studio  door  with 
out  any  word  or  information,  not  one  child 
left  the  house  longer  than  was  necessary  for 
fear  Uncle  Billy  would  come  while  he  was 
away." 

In  the  year  1905,  neither  the  children  nor 
his  older  friends  were  to  see  him  return  to 
New  York.  Severe  illness  kept  Jones  in  hos 
pital  through  part  of  June,  and  this,  with 
other  misfortunes,  delayed  the  start  of  his 
final  Ojibway  expedition  until  August.  The  re 
mainder  of  that  year  he  spent  among  the 
Indians.  First  came  Canadian  Ojibways,  who 
were  "extremely  nice"  to  him,  and  of  whose 
hospitality,  "the  Indian  form,  softened  by 
French  influence,"  he  said  that  he  had  never 
seen  the  equal.  They  were  Catholics,  so  that 
for  their  Friday  meals  there  was  much  fishing 
to  do,  often  before  breakfast,  when  "the  water 
was  quiet  and  a  haze  dimmed  the  high  prom 
ontories  of  the  cape  and  islands."  A  clever 
[123] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

woman,  Melisse  by  name,  gave  Jones  "great 
help"  in  the  interpretation  of  tales  and 
legends, — the  North  Shore  material  which  he 
had  gathered  in  the  foregoing  season.  The 
region  was  rich  in  legend,  poor  in  ceremony. 
Civilization  had  relaxed  the  old  habits,  a 
fact  upon  which  Jones  commented  quaintly: 
"these  people  do  not  observe  some  of  the 
rules  in  use  among  the  wilder  tribes.  Women, 
particularly,  gabble  at  will."  Nevertheless, 
he  writes,  "I  could  get  a  fine  collection  of 
stories  if  I  remained  here;  but  I  must  be  off 
to  wilder  people  who  dance  and  do  magic." 

These  he  found  at  Bois  Fort,  along  with 
many  "fine  cosmic  myths"  —the  story  of  the 
Great  Otter  which  nightly  sparkles  in  the 
northern  sky,  the  tales  of  Nanabucu,  of  Hell 
Diver,  and  the  sacred  origin  of  things — told 
in  an  old  chief's  lodge,  in  Jones's  tent  under  a 
hill  by  Lake  Vermilion,  or  in  the  canoe  of  his 
friend,  Ten  Claws,  the  hunter.  Snow  and  ice 
drove  him,  once  more,  out  from  the  wilder 
ness;  but  not  until  he  had  "a  very  big  collec 
tion  of  tales,"  about  which  he  could  say — 
"It  is  pretty  good  stuff,  and  I  am  proud  of 
it."  November  and  December  he  spent  at  the 
Leech  Lake  Indian  Agency,  revising  this  and 
former  collections,  measuring  his  own  ac- 
[124] 


THE    QUESTION    OF    MONEY 

curacy  by  the  variants  of  Indian  interpreters, 
reading  proof  sheets  of  a  dictionary  of  tribes 
for  the  Bureau  of  Ethnology,  and,  in  his  few 
leisure  moments,  trying  to  see  and  plan  his 
future.  This  last  was  the  hardest  work,  but 
Jones  determined  to  be  patient.  "If  what  I 
know  and  what  I  can  do  is  of  any  value,"  he 
wrote,  "I  ought  by  spring  to  get  some  sort  of 
a  position." 

The  hope  was  not  fulfilled.  By  mid-winter 
of  1906,  Jones  had  returned  to  New  York, 
but  found  no  prospect  of  permanent  employ 
ment  in  Algonkin  research.  The  Carnegie 
Institution  offered  him,  indeed,  another  grant 
(which  he  accepted)  to  continue  the  prepara 
tion  of  his  O  jib  way  papers.  Still,  everything 
was  temporary,  everything  uncertain.  And 
then  suddenly  Jones  came  to  the  cross-roads 
of  his  life.  Dr.  G.  A.  Dorsey,  of  the  Field 
Museum  of  Natural  History  in  Chicago,  came 
to  New  York  and  gave  him  the  choice  of  three 
expeditions,  to  Africa,  to  the  South  Sea  Is 
lands,  or  to  the  Philippines.  Here  were  three 
regions  open,  all  at  once,  and  all,  to  an  an 
thropologist,  full  of  good  hunting.  Jones  at 
first  refused,  rightly.  For  a  long  time  he  tried 
in  every  direction  to  get  Algonkin  work.  His 
friends  then  felt — and  now  see  clearly — that 

[125] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

here  if  ever  was  a  man  who  knew  our  North 
American  Indians,  and  who,  by  blood,  and 
training,  and  predilection,  ought  to  stay  where 
he  had  begun  so  brilliantly.  There  was  no 
help  for  it.  As  a  last  resort,  Jones  consented 
to  undertake  the  Philippine  expedition.  Since 
he  had  the  O  jib  way  material  yet  to  complete 
for  the  Carnegie  Institution,  it  was  judged 
best  that  he  should  go  to  Chicago,  finish  there 
his  contracted  work,  and  while  broadening  his 
acquaintance  with  scientific  men  and  methods, 
prepare  himself  for  a  new  and  alien  field. 

In  June,  1906,  therefore,  Doctor  Jones  went 
to  Chicago,  and  began  his  connection  with  the 
Field  Museum. 


[126 


XIV 

THE   PHILIPPINES 

DOCTOR  JONES  lived  in  Chicago  for  about 
a  year.  Except  that  he  found  pleasant  com 
panions  at  the  Field  Museum,  and  soon,  as 
was  his  habit  everywhere,  made  friends  of 
them,  there  is  little  to  be  recorded  about  this 
period  of  his  life.  He  kept  long,  busy  hours  in 
the  Museum,  near  which  he  had  his  lodgings. 
"You  know,"  he  writes,  "the  part  of  the  city  I 
am  in  is  like  an  inland  country  town  with  lots 
of  open  air  and  space;  and  so  I  never  go  down 
town  into  the  dust,  cinders,  rush  and  noise, 
only  when  I  have  to.  The  Museum,  you  know, 
is  on  the  Lake.  There  are  green  plots,  with 
trees  often.  For  example,  a  maple  comes  up 
to  my  window.  To  smoke  I  must  go  out  of 
doors,  which  in  one  way  is  a  hardship,  but  in 
another  quite  a  recreation;  for  the  lawns,  and 
groves,  and  lagoons,  and  big  Lake  are  all 
there." 

The  Philippine  expedition  *  took  shape 
slowly,  with  much  postponement.  "My  work 
out  there  (in  the  Philippines)  will  probably  be 

*  Organized  by  Mr.  R.  F.  Cummings. 

[127] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

with  the  pygmy  black  man  called  the  Negrito. 
He  is  the  wild  man  of  the  islands,  wild  in  the 
sense  that  he  lives  in  out  of  the  way  places, 
and  not  that  he  is  ferocious.  The  main  thing 
holding  me  back  at  present  is  a  piece  of  work 
I  am  doing  for  the  Carnegie  Institution.  It 
will  be  devoted  almost  entirely  to  the  transla 
tion  of  0  jib  way  myths  and  traditions  which  I 
collected  at  various  times  in  Canada  and 
Northern  Minnesota.  I  will  present  the  tales 
as  they  came  from  the  lips  of  the  narrator, 
and  my  manuscript  will  be  so  arranged  that 
both  text  and  translation  can  be  published  at 
the  same  time,  with  the  Ojibway  on  one  page 
and  the  translation  on  the  other.  Of  course 
you  know  this  is  rather  for  science  than  for 
popular  reading,  and  it  is  better  so;  for  much 
of  it  is  naive  and  unrestrained,  and  it  wades 
with  childish  simplicity  through  what  so- 
called  civilized  people  term  indelicacy.  The 
work  should  have  one  feature  that  may  be  of 
popular  interest.  The  background  of  the 
Song  of  Hiawatha  is  the  mythology  of  the 
Ojibways.  Now  by  means  of  these  tales  one 
can  pick  out  just  what  is  Indian  and  what  is 
the  poet's  fancy." 

It  was  with  regret  that  Jones  left  this  work 
unfinished,  and  made  ready,  at  last,  for  his 
[128] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

voyage  across  the  Pacific.  Though  being  sent 
on  most  generous  terms,  he  felt  the  break  in 
the  main  design  of  his  training.  "I  wish  I 
had  something  here"  said  he.  But  even  such 
a  wish,  even  the  natural  sadness  at  leaving 
his  friends,  could  not  tarnish  a  bright  zeal  for 
his  profession,  an  old  strong  love  of  active 
service. 

Chance  words  may  not  be  taken  for  pre 
sentiment.  Yet  more  than  once,  during  these 
last  days  in  America,  Jones  spoke  or  wrote  of 
things  to  be  done  "by  the  time  I  get  back,  if 
I  ever  do";  and  in  July,  1907,  he  revisited  his 
birthplace — the  old  prairie  of  the  moaning 
wind — to  take,  as  he  said  afterward,  "a  last 
look/'  He  sailed  from  Seattle  in  August,  on 
the  ship  A  Id  Maru. 

From  this  point  onward,  we  have  only  let 
ters  and  a  diary.*  Jones  landed  in  Manila  on 
Friday,  the  13th  of  September,  and  began  at 
once  to  collect  his  outfit  for  the  field. 

"Manila,  October  6.  It  is  very  difficult  to 
get  hold  of  any  information  to  go  by,  for  the 
knowledge  of  the  ethnology  of  the  islands  is 
yet  pretty  hazy  even  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  are  working  at  it.  And  others  who  have 

*  Unless    otherwise    designated,    the    extracts    given    are    from 
Dr.   Jones's  letters. 

[129] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

been  about,  and  should  have  something  to  tell, 
are  more  content  with  some  cock  and  bull 
tale  which  in  time  goes  as  gospel  truth,  where 
upon  it  then  forms  a  basis  of  opinion.  Some 
army  officers  can  locate  places  where  they 
have  seen  naked  natives,  who  can  fight,  and 
who  can  run  to  fight  again.  That  is  good  as 
far  as  it  goes.  It  is  the  same  old  thing  we 
have  become  familiar  with  in  our  country: 
army  officers  have  been  stationed  for  years 
among  some  of  our  most  interesting  Indians, 
and  yet  know  nothing  about  them." 

At  last,  in  that  city  of  conflicting  talk, 
Manila,  Jones  learned  his  route  would  lie 
round  the  north  end  of  Luzon,  by  sea,  to 
Aparri  at  the  mouth  of  the  Cagayan  River, 
in  Isabela  Province;  thence  up  the  river, 
southward,  among  the  hills  and  the  wild  hill- 
people. 

"Aparri,  Nov.  4,  1907.  My  dear  Doctor 
Dorsey:  I  am  leaving  for  the  Abulug  River 
west  of  here,  not  for  work  but  in  company 
with  an  expedition  of  inspection.  I  will  re 
turn  in  a  week  and  go  to  the  Ilongots  south 
east  of  Echague  at  the  headwaters  of  the 
Cagayan.  The  why  and  wherefore  of  this  I 
will  relate  after  my  return  from  Abulug.  I 
met  Cole  and  found  him  doing  grandly. 
[130] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

"Ilagan,  Isabela,  Nov.  20.  When  I  sent 
off  that  hurried  note  from  Aparri  I  had 
no  idea  that  it  would  be  this  long  before  I 
could  get  a  letter  off  to  you  again.  When  I 
left  Vigan  after  the  visit  with  Cole  I  met  on 
board  the  boat,  bound  for  Aparri,  Mr.  Brink, 
the  Assistant  Director  of  Education.  He  was 
on  his  way  to  visit  the  schools  of  Northern 
Luzon  and  of  the  Valley  of  the  Cagayan.  He 
asked  me  to  accompany  him  and  his  party  on 
this  tour,  and  so  I  accepted  the  invitation.  I 
am  glad  I  did  it,  because  it  has  enabled  me  to 
see  where  I  am  better  than  any  information  I 
have  yet  been  able  to  derive  from  written  or 
oral  source.  From  Aparri  we  went  to  the 
Abulug  country.  We  .  .  .  got  as  far  as  the 
Apayaos.  Before  coming  to  the  Apayaos  we 
saw  and  met  mixed  blood  Negritos.  Their 
hair  was  curly,  frizzly,  and  russet  brown. 
Sometimes  there  was  one  with  the  short, 
woolly  kink.  They  squatted  together  in  clus 
ters,  or  one  behind  another.  As  a  rule  they 
were  as  lean  as  dry  bamboo,  and  the  hags 
were  as  wrinkled  as  shrivelled  potatoes.  They 
were  as  homely  as  toads.  They  bivouacked 
at  night  under  a  straw  lean-to.  .  .  .  The 
sleepers  mind  the  stones  and  pebbles  about 
as  much  as  I  do  the  comfortable  bed  of  a 
[1311 


WILLIAM    JONES 

hair  mattress.  In  the  morning,  about  when 
Sirius  is  rising  high  enough  for  the  Pawnee  to 
lug  in  eating  sweet  corn  and  barbecue  in  the 
Morning  Star  rite,  a  small  fire  is  kindled;  then 
the  old  man  hogs  it.  He  can't  circle  it,  but  he 
lies  as  much  around  it  as  he  can,  and  the  rest 
hug  up  wherever  they  can  find  room.  At 
daylight,  or  rather  when  the  dawn  lightens 
up  the  Eastern  sky,  they  are  astir.  They 
were  hunting,  and  so  had  venison  and  meat 
to  eat.  .  .  .  They  sing  a  pretty  hum,  about 
as  loud  as  the  buzz  of  a  humming  bird,  and 
they  dance  a  pleasing  pantomime.  In  fact  the 
girls  do  a  wave  of  the  arm  and  hand  and  a 
movement  of  the  body  which  are  very  vol 
uptuous.  It  was  art  in  the  way  it  was  done, 
and  in  the  way  it  wrought  an  effect.  The 
boys  dance  a  step  not  unlike  a  *  hoe-down* 
or  'cutting  the  pigeon  wing.'  Beyond  the 
Negritos  towards  Cole's  country  were  the 
Apayaos,  a  fine  looking  type  of  men  and 
women.  At  first  sight  they  remind  one  of 
our  American  Indians.  I  got  about  two  days 
[distant]  from  Cole.  Then  we  withdrew  by 
the  path  we  came,  or  rather  down  the  river 
up  which  we  came  in  barangays.  A  barangay 
is  a  dug-out  with  a  bamboo  floor,  and  over 
the  floor  an  oval  shed  of  the  same  material. 
[132] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

"My  objective  point  is  Echague,  where  I 
expect  to  strike  out  and  return  to.  Worcester 
advised  me  to  select  the  region  over  here  to 
work  in.  He  suggested  that  I  take  up  first 
the  llongots  who  are  south  of  Echague.  These 
people,  as  you  know,  are  supposed  to  be 
Malay-Negritos . "  * 

Two  fragments,  found  long  afterward  among 
the  Doctor's  papers,  may  well  be  inserted  here. 
They  indicate  the  sort  of  welcome  which  he, 
as  a  notable  visitor,  received  in  "educational 
circles"  at  Bangued,  Abra,  during  the  travels 
mentioned  in  the  foregoing  letter.  Senorita 
Lutgarda  Astudillo  addressed  to  him  the  fol 
lowing  speech: 

"Mr.  Jones,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

"We  the  people  in  Bangued  come  to  bid 
you  a  hearty  welcome  our  most  distinguished 
visitor  to  our  place.  We  are  very  glad  to  see 
you.  Perhaps  you  are  anxious  too,  to  see  our 
place  and  the  different  tribes  of  people. 

"It  is  strange  for  you  to  see  perhaps  an 
unknown  girl  who  comes  to  crown  you  now 
with  a  wreath  of  flowers  as  a  sign  of  joy  we 

*  The  rest  of  this  letter  was  filled  with  cordial  praise  of  a  colleague 
then  in  Northern  Luzon,  Mr.  F.  C.  Cole  of  the  Field  Museum,  who, 
Jones  said,  had  "gone  after  a  collection  with  pretty  much  the  eye 
of  a  Harrington,  the  taste  of  a  Simms,  and  the  care  of  an  H.  I.  Smith." 

[133] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

show  you.  This  girl  that  I  mentioned  is  the 
ninth  descendant  of  the  Tinguians.  These 
Tinguians  were  the  pioneers  of  this  town. 

"Permit  me,  then,  Mr.  Jones,  to  place  this 
wreath  of  flowers  on  your  thoughtful  head. 
It  is  the  custom  here  to  crown  our  friends 
when  they  celebrate  their  birthday  and  to 
crown  distinguished  visitors,  therefore  I  place 
this  crown  upon  your  head. 

"May  you  live  long  and  may  you  be  so 
happy  in  the  Philippines  that  you  will  never 
want  to  leave  them." 

The  learned  stranger  was  then  greeted  by  a 
chorus  who  knew  their  "Herald  Angels,"  and 
were  not  afraid  of  parody : 

"Hark!  the  High  School  class  proclaim, 
Jones  has  come  to  the  Philippines. 
Welcome  glad  to  him  we  bring, 
Greetings  true  to  him  we  sing. 
Joyful  all  ye  people  rise, 
Join  the  triumphs  of  the  skies, 
With  the  High  School  class  proclaim 
Jones  has  come  to  the  Philippines. 
Hark  the  High  School  class  proclaim 
Jones  has  come  to  the  Philippines ! " 

We  cannot  tell  what  was  passing,  at  the 
moment,  inside  that  "thoughtful  head"  un 
der  its  floral  crown;  but  we  may  be  sure  that 
[134] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

our    friend    missed    no    detail    in    the    little 
comedy. 

At  Echague,  a  small  "Cristiano"  town  on 
the  Cagayan  River,  Jones  reached  his  last 
outpost  of  civilization.  The  fringe  of  our 
white  man's  world  is  always  ragged ;  and  it  was 
without  flattery  that  Jones  described  what  he 
saw  there.  "This,"  he  wrote  from  Echague 
in  November,  1907,  "is  the  end  of  things,  in 
a  way.  There  are  lines  of  bamboo  shacks 
standing  each  side  of  the  passageway  to  sug 
gest  streets;  there  are  several  Chinese  shops, 
dingy  and  squalid,  and  a  native  store  here  and 
there,  more  dingy  and  more  squalid  than  the 
Chinese  places.  At  present  I  am  in  the 
quarters  of  a  Lieutenant  of  the  Constabulary, 
and  .  .  .  am  alone.  The  Lieutenant  is  at 
Ilagan,  attending  court,  and  may  be  gone  ten 
days.  .  .  .  There  is  one  other  white  man 
in  town,  but  he,  too,  is  gone;  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  one  other  American,  for  there  are 
several  Spaniards.  It  is  a  great  place  for 
marriages  and  funerals.  One  morning  there 
were  five  at  one  time,  all  in  the  Roman  Catho 
lic  church,  which  is  a  tumble-down  af 
fair.  .  .  .  Off  one  corner  at  the  front  is  a 
scaffold,  and  perched  aloft  is  a  stand  where 
two  boys  rend  the  air  pounding  bells.  I  al- 
[135] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

ways  associated  the  chiming  and  tolling  of 
bells  with  churches,  but  since  coming  out  to 
the  Islands  I  find  church  bells  can  make  pan 
demonium  as  well. 

"The  padre  is  a  well  fed  lump  of  putty, 
with  a  total  lack  of  spirituality  in  his  look. 
These  dispensers  of  spiritual  guidance  are  a 
queer  lot.  One  night  we  rode  into  a  barrio,  a 
little  town  part  of  another,  where  a  church 
fiesta  had  been  going  on  during  the  day. 
Arrangements  had  previously  been  made  to 
have  dinner  (evening  meal)  at  the  house  of  the 
padre.  When  we  rode  up  we  heard  loud  talk 
ing  and  the  opening  of  bottles.  Ascending 
the  stairway  from  the  ground,  we  worked  our 
way  through  a  crowd  and  entered  the  smok 
ing  room  and  the  sitting  room  beyond.  The 
long  table  was  loaded  down  with  food,  and 
Spaniards  filling  themselves  like  swine.  A 
padre  came  forward  to  greet  us;  he  had  a 
heavy  load,  and  it  was  with  effort  that  he 
could  steer  his  course  toward  us;  it  was  as 
much  effort  for  him  to  stand.  He  had  on  a 
loud  talking  drunk,  and  looked  like  an  untidy 
butcher  in  an  untidy  butcher  shop.  The 
white  ecclesiastical  garb  he  had  on  was 
smeared  with  about  everything  he  had  rubbed 
against.  .  .  .  The  leader  of  our  party  was 
[136] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

Mr.  B ,  a  fine  type  of  American,  not  only 

for  stature,  looks,  bearing  and  dignity,  but 
also  for  character  and  quality.  He  is  a  man 
of  theological  training  ...  a  Presbyterian,  I 
believe.  The  contrast  between  these  two  men 
of  God  was  wide  as  the  east  is  from  the  west. 
Another  fat  padre  had  a  seat  at  a  round 
table,  gambling  at  cards  with  five  or  six  low 
born  rascals.  He  made  some  insulting  re 
mark  to  a  Spaniard,  who  replied  by  slapping 
him  on  the  cheek.  The  revulsion  in  my  mind 
was  not  so  much  at  the  debauchery  of  the 
two  padres  as  at  the  thought  that  it  was  to 
such  as  these  that  so  many  well  disposed  peo 
ple  went  to  confession  and  sat  for  spiritual 
guidance,  even  innocent  maidens." 

Christmas  in  Echague  was  "like  a  circus 
day.  The  pueblo  was  in  gay  attire  in  the 
morning,  which  was  as  warm  as  a  July  morn 
ing  in  Hampton.  The  church  was  packed  so 
tight  that  the  door  was  blocked,  and  a  crowd 
waited  outside.  ...  In  the  afternoon  where 
were  many  cocks  slain  in  the  pit,  and  much 
money  lost  and  won  in  the  fight.  The  local 
band  went  to  the  door  of  each  tienda  (shop) 
and  played  its  weird  music,  in  this  way  beg 
ging  money  for  the  church  and  getting  a 
drink  of  bino  at  the  same  time.  In  the  even- 
[137] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

ing  the  lieutenant  and  I  attended  a  small  dance 
in  a  room  about  twelve  by  twelve.  The  Span 
ish  dances  were  pretty.  .  .  .  When  the  Fourth 
of  July  comes  round,  imagine  it  Christmas. 
Then  you  will  have  an  idea  of  what  Christmas 
is  like  out  here.  ...  A  soldier  leaves  to 
morrow,  and  will  take  this,  God  speed  him!" 
Soon  after  New  Year's,  1908,  Dr.  Jones  was 
off  into  the  wilds,  ready  for  "the  so-called 
unknown"  at  the  head- waters  of  Rio  Grande 
de  Cagayan.  This  stream,  which  rushes  down 
in  boulder-broken  rapids  through  jungle  from 
the  hills,  was  to  be  his  only  guide — indeed, 
for  all  but  the  first  stage,  his  only  means  of 
approach — into  a  country  without  maps,  with 
out  trails,  without  a  name.  Two  govern 
ment  officials  under  escort,  and  a  few  Filipino 
traders  in  fear  of  their  lives,  had  formerly  gone 
as  far  up  as  Dumubatu,  where,  five  days  of 
hard  travel  from  Echague,  rude  houses  strag 
gled  along  the  river  bank.  The  traders  car 
ried  up  red  or  blue  cloth,  salt,  pots,  knives, 
brass  wire;  they  fetched  in  return  wild  honey 
and  beeswax,  coarse  mats  and  tampipis,  rice, 
venison,  or  wild  pork;  and  with  these,  a  little 
information,  scant  and  vague,  about  the  men 
with  whom  they  had  bartered, — the  Ilongots 
from  the  high  wilderness  beyond.  These 
[138] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

Ilongots  were  little  naked  brownies,  with 
crinkly  russet  hair,  and  often  a  crinkly  russet 
down  of  beard;  with  broad  cheeks  but  narrow 
chins,  so  that  their  faces  had  a  cat-like,  ef 
feminate  contour: — nervous,  vivacious  men, 
ready  to  laugh  at  nothing,  ready  to  cry;  head- 
hunters,  armed  with  wooden  shields,  light 
spears  cruelly  barbed,  bows  and  arrows,  and 
bolos  with  deep-bellied  blades.  They  lived 
in  transient  clearings  on  the  mountain  slopes, 
or  fishing-camps  beside  the  river,  far  down 
in  gorges  of  huge  white  rock  overhung  with 
jungle, — gorges  into  which  the  sun  struck 
briefly  at  noonday,  to  heat  the  boulders  among 
the  rapids,  or  light  a  pool  where  crocodiles 
lay  waiting.  It  was  up  this  river,  to  find  these 
Ilongots,  that  Dr.  Jones  started  in  a  season  of 
low  water,  April,  1908.  With  him  went  a 
native  servant,  and  Dona  his  German  hound. 
For  arms  he  carried  only  a  Luger  pistol,  using 
eleven  cartridges  to  the  clip. 

"Up  the  Cagayan,  April  10.  I  am  writing 
this  at  various  places  and  times,  in  order  to 
have  it  ready  when  I  can  catch  someone  going 
down  the  river.  I  left  Echague  last  Sunday 
morning  with  my  man  Lorenzo,*  Dona,  and 

*  A  Filipino  servant,  incapable,  whose  place  was  afterward  better 
filled  by  Romano  Dumaliang.     See  page  153. 

[139] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

two  bull  carts  laden  with  various  kinds  of 
plunder,  such  as  chow,  note  paper  and  books, 
articles  for  barter,  and  clothing.  That  after 
noon  ...  we  came  to  a  small  barrio  called 
Pangal.  It  lay  in  among  banana  trees,  and 
was  a  tempting  place  to  rest.  A  sick  youth 
was  down  with  fever,  and  I  did  a  little  minis 
tering.  The  next  morning  we  took  three 
basket  sleds,  each  of  which  was  drawn  by  a 
carabao.*  These  three  took  us  to  another 
town  farther  up  the  river  called  Majatungut. 
We  were  entertained  in  the  house  of  the 
teniente  (Lieutenant),  who  corresponds  to  the 
Mayor  of  a  town  in  the  United  States.  It  was 
full  of  people,  not  when  we  entered,  but  after 
we  entered.  I  ate  eggs,  chicken  and  rice,  with 
a  host  of  eyes  glued  on  me  and  my  mouth.  I 
have  acquired  the  siesta  habit,  and  so  take 
my  mid-day  sleep.  I  took  it  there,  and  at 
three  o'clock  we  pulled  on  to  the  next  town, 
called  Inamatan,  where  we  put  up  with  an 
other  teniente.  This  man  had  a  big  house, 
and  he  needed  it  to  hold  the  multitude  of  men, 
women,  boys,  girls,  cats,  dogs,  chickens,  hogs 
and  carabaos  that  lived  under  and  round  it. 
I  know  now  what  a  tiger  feels  like  at  a  show, 
where  he  is  fetched  out  upon  an  arena,  with 

*  Water  buffalo. 

[140] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

crowds  of  faces  looking  down  upon  him  from 
everywhere.  Eyes  were  riveted  on  me  from 
the  moment  I  entered  until  I  don't  know 
when.  They  were  still  looking  when  I  fell 
asleep  on  my  cot.  The  next  morning  we 
pulled  out  early,  and  crossed  the  river  for 
the  second  time.  At  a  town  called  Masaya- 
saya  .  .  .  the  teniente  gave  me  breakfast.  In 
another  hour  we  were  off,  and  crossed  the 
river  again.  This  time  we  pulled  into  a  town 
called  Quinalabasa,  where  I  was  again  enter 
tained  by  the  teniente.  A  man  has  suddenly 
shown  up  who  is  going  to  Echague,  and  so 
this  will  have  to  go  unfinished— 

"[From  the  diary.]  Saturday,  April  11. 
The  soldiers  *  passed  on  their  way  to  Echague 
this  morning.  ...  I  asked  [one]  about  the 
expedition,  and  this  was  the  brilliant  exploit 
performed — that  they  came  to  some  houses, 
and  seeing  no  people  there  set  fire  to  the 
houses;  then  they  came  back.  He  said  that 
all  the  people  had  fled  up  the  river.  I  asked 
how  he  knew  where  they  went  when  he  saw 
no  one.  His  reply  was  a  sickly  grin  and  a 
bowed  head. 

"The  Ilocanos  are  now  certain  that  it  is 
futile  for  me  to  try  to  see  the  Ilongots.  I  told 

*  Native  Constabulary. 

[141] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

them  to  take  me  near  where  the  first  Ilongot 
town  is,  unload  me  and  my  stuff,  and  then  to 
come  home  as  fast  as  they  desire.  Lorenzo 
wanted  to  know  what  we  were  going  to  eat 
and  how  we  were  going  to  live  when  all  alone. 
The  question  seemed  an  interesting  one  to  the 
Ilocanos.  I  answered  by  saying:  let  me  see 
but  a  single  man;  that  I  would  wave  a  piece 
of  red  cloth,  jingle  some  bells,  and  show  some 
beads;  that  this  would  fetch  not  only  him  but 
others.  Whereupon  laughed  the  Ilocanos, 
who  understand  me  less  now  than  when  I 
first  came. 

"[From  the  diary.]  April  15  and  16.  We 
found  the  six  Ilocanos  and  two  banquillas  in 
waiting.  ...  It  was  8.30  when  the  polers 
pushed  off.  .  .  .  The  river  was  pretty  low, 
but  the  men  kept  to  one  side  or  the  other  be 
cause  in  such  places  it  was  generally  easier 
poling.  Rapids  became  more  frequent  the 
farther  we  ascended.  .  .  .  All  of  us  got  out 
where  the  rapids  were  swift,  and  the  Ilocanos 
pulled  and  pushed  the  boats  over  into  smooth 
water  again.  .  .  . 

"Farther  we  ascended,  more  pleasing  and 

varied  became  the  scenery.    First  on  one  side 

and  then  on  the  other  the  banks  rose  in  walls 

of  white  rock.  ...     To  the  right  of  a  turn 

[142] 


THE    PHILIPPINES 

in  the  river  beyond  were  two  very  deep  cav 
erns  in  the  high  walls.  A  confused  rumbling 
went  on  inside,  and  now  and  then  a  large  bat 
would  appear  at  the  entry  way,  and  as  sud 
denly  vanish  into  the  darkness  of  the  place 
again. 

"The  sun  went  down  with  the  round  moon 
high  in  the  eastern  sky.  Big  bats  flew  over  us 
on  their  way  up  the  river,  now  dipping,  now 
rising.  .  .  .  We  kept  on  in  the  clear  moonlight 
till  we  came  to  this  island  in  the  river.  It  is 
long  and  narrow  with  nothing  but  rock  and 
gravel.  We  are  camped  near  its  upper  end, 
just  below  some  swift  rapids.  The  night  is 
calm.  Some  sort  of  a  bird  with  a  whooping 
cry  is  calling  in  the  jungle.  The  Filipinos  are 
lying  on  the  barren  rocks  by  their  fires,  the 
Ilocanos  near  theirs,  the  Yogads  and  Lorenzo 
near  ours.  Bernaldino  *  said  it  will  be  a 
good  thing  to  push  on  after  a  little  sleep 
so  as  to  arrive  among  the  Ilongots  before 
sunrise.  .  .  . 

"We  slept  till  two  in  the  morning,  and  in 
half  an  hour  were  on  our  journey.  I  went  in 
the  banquilla  with  Bernaldino.  The  moon 
gave  us  a  clear  night  to  travel  by.  Surging 

*  Bernaldino  Panganiban,  a  trader  who  had  met  Dr.  Jones  by 
chance  on  the  river,  and  was  now  guiding  him  to  Dumubatu. 

[143] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

low  in  the  southern  sky  loomed  the  great 
dragon.  Beyond  either  bank  the  deer  called 
to  each  other  with  their  bleating  bark,  and 
now  and  then  rose  the  plaintive  squeak  of  a 
carabao  trying  to  low.  .  .  ." 


[144 


XV 

IN   THE   WILDS 

"THE  sun  was  now  up,"  continues  the  diary 
on  April  16,  1908,  "and  in  a  half  hour  Ber- 
naldirio  began  to  halloo  and  tell  who  he  was 
and  with  whom  he  came.  He  got  out  near 
where  the  first  house  was,  but  on  going  up  to 
the  place  found  no  one  there.  We  made  no 
attempt  to  see  anyone  at  the  next  place  we 
passed,  for  it  was  there  that  the  soldiers  had 
done  their  burning;  the  place  is  called  Alipai- 
yan,  and  in  a  grove  of  palms.  In  an  hour  we 
drew  up  to  a  place  where  we  could  see  booth- 
like  structures  high  up  on  poles  about  a  half 
mile  from  our  left.  Presently  we  beheld  peo 
ple  scurrying  away,  but  after  much  halloo 
ing  Bernaldino  succeeded  in  halting  two.  He 
went  to  where  they  were,  and  after  a  short 
talk  came  back  to  the  river  with  them  follow 
ing  behind.  I  took  them  for  women  at  first, 
due  partly  to  their  feminine  features,  light 
build,  their  walk,  and  to  the  way  they  did 
their  hair  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  the  head. 
But  on  a  nearer  view  I  found  them  to  be 
young  men;  each  had  a  bow  and  some  arrows 
[145] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  some  fresh  hog 
meat  strung  in  small  pieces  on  bejuco.  They 
had  just  come  in  from  an  early  morning's 
hunt.  Bernaldino  had  them  to  wade  out  to 
the  boat  where  I  was  and  give  me  their  hands. 
As  the  first  extended  a  finger  from  the  right 
hand  which  clutched  his  bow  and  arrows,  he 
used  the  other  to  help  him  beg  for  the  cigarette 
in  my  lips.  His  companion  came  up  for  the 
same  thing,  and  I  let  each  have  a  cigarette. 
They  hurried  back  to  the  shore,  where  they 
quickly  pushed  a  bamboo  raft  out  into  the 
water  and  poled  up-stream  behind  us;  as 
they  came,  they  hallooed  to  people  in  the 
jungle  on  the  left,  who  answered  back.  In  a 
half  hour  I  could  make  out  some  houses  high 
up  on  the  left  bank;  and  as  we  drew  near 
I  could  see  people  appearing  by  the  bank. 
Presently  down  the  trail  to  the  water  came  a 
man,  who  took  a  step  or  two  and  then  halted; 
then  came  another  hesitatingly;  now  two,  and 
then  others.  On  their  making  out  Bernaldino 
and  hearing  the  sound  of  his  voice,  they  got 
courage  and  came  on  down  to  the  water.  By 
the  time  we  came  up  about  50  men,  women, 
and  children  were  assembled  at  the  landing 
place. 

"Dumubatu,  April  16.     Please  don't  ad- 
[1461 


IN    THE    WILDS 

dress  a  letter  to  me  at  this  place,  for  it  will 
never  get  here!  It  is  far  up  the  Cagayan,  at 
least  five  days  from  Echague.  There  is  no 
way  in  but  by  the  river;  by  that  way  one  goes 
out;  when  one  gets  to  it  one  has  to  wander  in 
the  jungle  to  find  it.  It  is  the  most  out-of- 
the-way  place  I  have  yet  run  into  out  here, 
and  probably  the  people  are  the  wildest.  I 
have  a  nice,  cool  little  house  to  dwell  in.  It 
is  thatched  with  palm  leaves  of  the  betel  nut, 
and  stands  off  the  ground  about  seven  feet. 
I  have  a  far  view  in  various  directions.  There 
is  abundant  game  everywhere  around.  I  wish 
I  had  a  shot  gun.  The  river  is  full  of  fish. 

"May  7th.  My  dear  Doctor  Dorsey: — 
I've  a  chance  to  send  this  to  Echague  by  a 
Yogad  on  his  way  there.  May  it  reach  you  in 
good  season,  and  find  you  in  the  beneficent 
keeping  of  this  pretty  good  old  world.  I've 
no  idea  where  you  are,  save  only  a  vague 
notion  that  perhaps  you  may  be  under  the 
cool  canvas  out  upon  the  deck  of  some  lone 
steamer  'somewheres  east  of  Suez,'  or  mixing 
in  the  naked,  spindle-legged  throng  of  some 
heat-smitten  city  in  that  direction.  With  the 
notion  is  a  guess  that  perhaps  in  the  next 
forty  days  and  nights  your  boat  will  come 
steaming  into  Manila  Bay.  I  wish  I  might 
[147] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

be  there;  but  as  that  cannot  be,  this  goes  to 
greet  you. 

"I  am  at  present  with  a  group  of  Ilongots 
living  far  up  the  Cagayan,  at  a  place  called 
Dumubatu.  On  the  map  there  is  a  spot  giv 
ing  one  the  impression  that  it  is  a  definite 
locality,  at  least  as  definite  as  an  Indian  vil 
lage.  But  don't  be  deceived  thereby.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  village.  At  the  particular 
spot  where  I  am  stands  a  house,  high  up  on 
poles  and  the  tall  stump  of  a  tree.  It  is 
thatched  with  palm  leaf.  In  front  is  a  door 
way  which  is  connected  with  a  stepladder. 
An  opening  on  one  side  looks  downstream, 
another  upstream,  the  door  faces  the  river. 
The  house  stands  on  a  high  bank  which  is 
pretty  steep.  The  jungle  hides  the  house 
from  the  river,  but  objects  on  the  river  are 
easily  and  quickly  seen.  This  house  is  con 
nected  with  another  about  a  100  yards 
upstream  by  a  narrow  difficult  path,  with 
another  about  200  yards  downstream  by  a 
still  worse  path.  About  100  yards  beyond  this 
third  house  is  another.  It  will  take  a  half 
hour  to  get  to  the  next  house  downstream. 
By  crossing  and  recrossing  the  river  for  two 
hours  more,  yes  three  hours  or  more,  but 
keep  moving,  you  can  see  what  constitutes 

[1481 


IN    THE    WILDS 

Dumubatu.  Generally  where  there  is  a  house 
or  two,  or  possibly  three,  there  is  a  family  of 
people  more  or  less  closely  related  by  blood. 
These  various  units  living  here  and  there 
along  the  river  for  four  or  five  miles  consti 
tute  one  political  group  of  Ilongots.  An 
other  group  lives  in  the  same  scattered  fashion 
up  the  river,  about  a  day  by  balsa  from  here; 
it  is  called  Panipagan.  A  short  way  from 
there  is  a  third,  called  Kagadyangan.  South 
west  of  here,  but  in  the  hills  is  a  fourth;  it  is 
called  Tamsi.  A  difficult  trail  leads  to  that 
group;  a  crawl  when  it  leads  upwards,  a  slide 
when  it  takes  a  downward  course,  and  a  tight 
rope  walk  over  precipices;  along  some  slides, 
one  has  to  claw  the  rocks  and  hang  on  by  the 
eyelids,  so  to  speak.  These  four  groups  make 
up  one  division  of  Ilongots,  and  are  my 
present  subjects  for  study.  They  are  friends, 
and  of  one  culture.  Beyond  them  toward  the 
south  and  west  are  other  Ilongots  who  are 
their  enemies. 

"May  8.  It  has  been  many  weeks,  several 
months,  in  fact,  since  I  have  had  any  word. . .  . 
Can  it  be  that  my  mail  lies  in  Manila  a  long 
while  before  it  is  forwarded?  ...  Of  course, 
I  am  out  of  all  communication  now  save  when 
hunters  or  fishermen  come  up  this  way  and 
[149] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

stop  at  my  place.  At  present  there  is  a  man 
and  his  son,  two  Yogads,  who  belong  down 
the  river,  who  are  visiting  me.  The  father 
returns  to-morrow,  and  will  take  this.  .  .  . 
I  have  been  very  fortunate  so  far  in  being  able 
to  send  out  word.  It  will  be  a  little  more 
difficult  as  I  proceed  up  the  river  and  get 
deeper  in  the  mountains.  I  am  having  an 
easy  time  as  things  usually  go.  I  have  plenty 
to  eat,  and  live  in  a  pleasant  shack,  and  have 
the  Ilongots  friendly  towards  me.  My  food 
is  eggs,  chicken,  wild  hog,  venison,  bananas, 
sweet  potatoes  and — what  else  do  you  think? 
Can  you  guess?  Can  you  shut  your  eyes  be 
fore  going  further  down  the  page?  Well,  it  is 
wild  honey,  which  my  friends  bring  me  in 
bamboo  tubes.  It  is  clear  honey,  and  most 
pleasant  to  my  tongue  and  palate.  ...  I 
fetched  along  two  boxes  of  hard-tack,  each  box 
weighing  twenty-five  pounds;  and  nothing  is 
better  than  eating  several  hard-tacks  crushed, 
with  the  crumbs  swimming  in  honey!  Of 
course,  I  always  have  rice,  but  it  gets  a  little 
monotonous.  ...  I  forgot  to  mention  fish, 
which  is  so  abundant  in  the  river.  Sometimes 
I  have  a  wild  dove  or  pigeon.  I  never  saw 
such  big  ones;  about  the  size  of  a  crow,  some 
are.  .  .  . 

[150] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

"My  house  is  unlike  any  you  have  ever 
seen.  It  stands  high  up  off  the  ground  on 
poles.  It  has  one  room,  and  a  hearth  in  two 
corners,  one  diagonally  opposite  the  other. 
The  walls  reach  up  to  your  waist,  and  the 
roof  then  begins  from  all  four  sides  and  meets 
at  a  point  above.  The  roof  is  thatched  with 
palm.  My  floor  is  a  screen  of  bejuco  splints. 
The  walls  are  bamboo  screens.  I  have  three 
openings;  one  is  a  door,  the  others  are  win 
dows.  Leading  up  to  my  door  is  a  stepladder, 
which  my  friends  pull  in  or  throw  down  at 
night  ...  for  I  always  have  one  or  more 
Ilongots.  They  like  to  come,  and  so  I  let 
them.  They  sleep  on  the  floor,  according  to 
custom,  and  always  have  a  fire  burning  on  the 
hearth,  to  keep  them  warm.  The  weather 
has  been  insufferably  hot,  ...  so  from  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning  until  about  three  or 
four  in  the  afternoon,  I  remain  in  the  shade 
of  my  cool  shack,  with  always  visitors  in.  I 
am  beginning  to  talk  a  little  Ilongot,  not 
enough  to  hurt;  but  my  speech  is  growing 
day  by  day.  The  rains  have  begun  to  set 
in.  ...  If  this  paper  is  a  bit  smelly,  it  is 
because  of  the  smoke  from  a  roasting  frame, 
where  I  am  having  a  pile  of  venison  cured.  .  .  . 

"May  25.  An  American  by  the  name  of 
[1511 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Biltz  is  visiting  me,  and  returns  down  the 
river  in  a  day,  taking  this  with  him  to  mail. 
He  is  the  school  teacher  at  Mayoyao.  I  be 
came  well  acquainted  with  him  among  the 
Igorotes.  He  came  up  simply  to  see  me,  eat 
some  fish  and  venison,  and  while  away  a  part 
of  his  vacation.  At  the  same  time  he  came  to 
fetch  me  a  few  necessities,  things  to  eat,  and 
junk  for  barter.  ...  I  am  still  at  what  is 
called  Dumubatu,  but  I  am  expecting  any 
time  to  go  upstream  to  a  place  called  Pani- 
pagan,  an  Ilongot  place.  It  is  not  on  the  map, 
and  there  is  no  other  road  to  the  place  but 
the  river.  I  shall  go  up  on  a  balsa,  a  raft  of 
bamboo  poles  laid  lengthwise.  ...  It  has  a 
little  platform  to  sit  on,  and  the  raft  is  poled 
by  two  men.  I  have  about  250  pounds  or 
more  of  impedimenta,  which  will  be  distributed 
among  other  balsas. 

"I  dislike  the  idea  of  leaving  my  house, 
which  I  have  become  very  much  attached  to, 
and  these  wild  people  have  told  me  that  I 
must  not  go;  but  if  I  do,  to  be  sure  to  return 
as  soon  as  possible.  .  .  .  My  house  is  high 
up,  but  then  it  is  low  compared  with  others. 
When  it  is  crowded  with  my  little  brown 
friends  it  becomes  a  little  shaky.  The  people 
at  Panipagan  are  preparing  a  house  for 
[152] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

me,  and  will  come  for  me  as  soon  as  it  is 
done.  .  .  . 

"[Diary.]  Thursday,  June  30 — I  gave  red 
cloth,  salt,  needles  and  thread  to  my  friends, 
and  I  have  provisions  to  last  indefinitely. 
Joaquin  [a  trader]  came  this  noon  with  a 
box  of  stuff.  ...  He  seemed  in  a  tremendous 
hurry,  and  said  he  was  going  back  to  Dumu- 
batu.  ...  In  the  party  was  one  named 
Romano  *  who  evidently  came  with  the  idea 
of  staying  with  me;  for  he  had  clothes  for  that 
purpose.  He  speaks  a  little  English,  and  was 
recommended  to  me  by  his  companions.  I 
will  give  him  a  trial. 

"About  July  12,  1908.  My  dear  Smith:- 
Your  letter  came  to  me  some  time  ago;  but 
at  the  time,  as  I  still  am,  I  was  out  of  all 
communication  with  the  big  world.  When 
you  know  this,  you  will  be  a  little  indulgent 
with  me  for  not  having  sent  you  a  letter 
sooner.  You  have  my  sympathy  in  the  be 
reavement  of  the  death  of  your  father.  It  is 
late  getting  to  you,  but  it  is  as  sincere  as  if  it 
had  gone  to  you  months  ago. 

"Look  on  the  map  of  Luzon  and  find  the 

*  Romano  Dumaliang,  of  Echague;  a  youth  of  seventeen  years, 
who  remained  a  loyal  servant  to  Dr.  Jones.  As  will  be  seen  later,  he 
played  the  man  at  a  crisis. 

[153] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

crooked  line  representing  the  Cagayan  River. 
Find  the  dot  marking  the  place  of  the  town  of 
Echague.  Then  follow  the  course  of  the  River 
upstream  to  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Southern  Isabela  Province,  and  you  will 
get  a  general  location  of  about  where  I  am. 
The  region  is  unknown,  and  the  present  map 
ping  of  it  is  based  largely  on  pipe  dreams. 
I  am  sojourning  with  a  Negrito-Malay  people 
called  Ilongots,  who  dwell  in  lofty  booths  on 
poles  and  in  the  forks  of  trees.  The  native 
name  of  the  place  where  I  am  at  present  is 
called  Kagadyangan.  It  is  on  a  mountain; 
and  commands  a  sweeping  view  of  large 
spaces  up  and  down  the  River  and  far  and 
wide  on  each  side.  The  River  winds  between 
high  walls  of  white  rock  in  places  along  here; 
and  in  the  shelters  of  these  walls  the  Ilongots 
often  dwell  for  long  periods  at  a  time  when 
they  want  to  live  on  fish  and  pass  an  easy  life. 
Back  on  the  hillsides  behind  some  of  the 
shelters  are  clearings  where  the  people  raise 
camote,  cane  and  rice.  This  shows  that  some 
of  the  shelters  are  more  or  less  permanent 
dwelling  places.  The  houses  are  thatched 
with  long  grass  or  with  palm  leaves.  They 
are  floored  with  bejuco  splint. 

"I  live  in  these  houses  with  them,  am  with 

[1541 


IN    THE    WILDS 

them  on  hikes,  hunts,  and  fishing.  I  behold 
them  in  all  sorts  of  moods — when  happy  and 
sad,  contented  and  dissatisfied,  hungry  and 
sated  with  food,  sober  and  drunk,  generous 
and  stingy,  and  so  on.  Think  of  the  lousiest 
Indians  you've  ever  seen,  and  you  will  have 
a  partial  notion  of  how  lousy  my  friends 
are.  .  .  .  Society  is  pretty  simple,  and  gov 
ernment  is  largely  according  to  custom.  They 
raise  rice,  corn,  squash,  beans,  tomato,  greens, 
tobacco,  bananas,  gabi,  and  some  other  things 
in  timbered  clearings.  They  hunt  deer  and 
wild  hog  with  the  bow  and  arrow,  and  use  nets 
and  traps  for  catching  fish.  They  hunt  in 
parties  and  with  dogs.  After  a  killing  the 
meat  is  divided  equally  all  round.  They  raise 
chickens,  and  here  and  there  a  wild  hog  is 
penned  and  fattened,  either  under  the  house 
or  close  by.  I've  met  one  woman  who  makes 
a  rude  kind  of  pottery.  She  told  me  she 
learned  it  from  her  mother.  She  is  a  gray- 
haired,  wrinkled  old  woman  of  about  sixty. 
As  far  as  I  can  learn  she  is  the  only  woman 
among  this  particular  group  of  Ilongots  who 
makes  pottery.  The  people  boil  food  in  pots 
as  they  do  in  iron  kettles,  and  over  as  big  a 
fire. 

"My  friends  wear  no  footgear.    The  women 
[155] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

wear  a  short  skirt  of  one  piece  of  cloth,  and 
the  men  a  narrow  clout  to  hide  their  naked- 
ness.  They  file  the  front  teeth,  and  do  a  little 
tattooing.  They  take  heads,  breast-bone, 
heart,  and  a  finger  from  a  slain  enemy,  but 
do  not  keep  any  of  these  things  as  trophies. 
They  have  few  formal  ceremonies,  though 
they  do  many  things  ceremonially. 

"This  is  a  rough,  random  sketch  of  some  of 
the  things  these  people  do.  I  expect  to  con 
tinue  with  them  four  or  five  months  longer,  and 
then  I  will  go  to  another  region  of  probably 
the  same  people.  Then  after  that  I  hope  to 
pay  some  attention  to  Negritos  not  in  con 
tact  with  Malays,  or  with  those  rather  who 
are  not  so  very  much  in  contact  with  Malays. 
Those  that  I've  seen  live  in  their  peculiar 
kind  of  way  but  speak  Malay. 

"I've  been  very  well  thus  far.  Of  course 
I've  been  in  the  highlands  pretty  much  all  the 
time.  And  before  coming  to  this  neck  of  the 
woods  I  was  among  the  Igorotes.  Give  us  a 
little  time  and  you  can  come  to  Chicago  to 
study  Philippine  ethnology!  And  when  Lau- 
fer  comes  home  from  Thibet,  there  will  be 
some  more.  We  are  going  some,  don't  you 
think? 

"My  trip  oversea  was  uneventful,  but  my 
[1561 


IN    THE    WILDS 

two  weeks  in  Japan  is  still  a  pleasing  dream. 
That  land  has  had  good  press  agents,  and  they 
have  accomplished  what  they  set  out  to  do, 
but  in  their  accounts  of  art,  temples,  and  war, 
they  forget  to  tell  much  about  the  people. 
True,  there  is  much  beauty  in  Japan,  but 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  the  other  thing.  Cos 
tume  is  odd,  architecture  quaint,  language 
unintelligible,  manners  highly  conventional; 
all  these  things  have  deeply  impressed  the 
European,  and  he  has  accordingly  written 
about  them,  and  generally  from  a  distorted 
point  of  view.  Forget  the  idea  that  all  Japs 
are  brave.  I  saw  a  boat  load  of  panic  stricken 
people  one  day  near  Tokyo,  and  their  wild 
behavior  changed  my  former  impressions  con 
siderably.  And  it  seems  a  mistaken  notion 
to  speak  of  Japan  as  a  young  nation.  She  is 
an  ancient  land,  and  the  marks  of  it  are 
everywhere. 

"Well,  this  is  enough  for  now.  It's  your 
turn  to  talk.  Tell  me  about  yourself,  what 
you  are  doing,  about  the  New  York  Museum 
of  Natural  History,  and  other  things  in  gen 
eral.  How  is  Wissler?  Remember  me  kindly 
to  him.  Say  to  him  that  I  will  write  him  one 
of  these  days.  Say  howdy  to  Mead  and 
Orchard.  Is  Happy  Bob  still  around  with  his 
[157] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

dust  broom  in  hand?  Good  old  Bob!  Don't 
forget  to  say  a  kind  word  to  the  Demings, 
Mr.  Hall,  and  to  Mr.  Frazer. 

"Remember  me  to  Mrs.  Smith  and  the 
girls. 

"July  14,  1908.  Kagadyangan.  The  peo 
ple  came  down  to  Dumubatu  with  their 
balsas  (bamboo  rafts),  and  brought  me  and 
my  impedimenta.  In  two  days  we  reached 
Panipagan.  We  should  have  reached  the 
place  sooner,  but  the  men  wanted  to  catch 
fish.  They  caught  the  fish  with  nets  which 
were  thrown  from  the  balsas.  One  man 
stands  in  front  and  the  other  drives  the  balsa 
into  position.  With  many  balsas  it  is  pretty 
certain  that  fish  can  be  got.  It  was  great  fun, 
and  they  enjoyed  it  pretty  much  all  the  way. 
They  kept  at  it  even  at  night.  The  moon  was 
big  and  bright,  and  we  had  many  fish  to  eat. 
Some  women  were  along.  They  did  not  throw 
the  nets,  but  they  helped  push  the  balsas. 
They  are  strong,  like  Indian  women,  from 
continual  work.  I  was  at  Panipagan  but 
about  two  weeks.  I  lived  in  the  house  of  the 
head  man.  He  was  extremely  hospitable,  and 
I  never  lacked  for  food  .  .  .  but  the  house 
was  alive  with  roaches,  and  they  got  into 
everything.  The  people  hated  to  see  me 
[1581 


IN    THE    WILDS 

leave,  but  I  had  to  get  out  of  that  house.  .  .  . 
The  town  was  full  of  sick,  lame,  halt  and 
whatnot.  I  gained  something  of  a  reputation 
as  a  healer,  and  the  people  have  an  idea  I  can 
perform  miracles.  I  have  had  wonderful  luck 
in  one  or  two  instances,  and  am  on  the  wave 
of  popular  approval.  When  it  came  time  for 
me  to  come  here  I  had  willing  hands  to  carry 
my  impedimenta.  The  carriers  were  mostly 
women,  or  rather  the  women  carried  the 
heaviest  packages  and  the  men  the  light,  easy 
ones.  It  was  no  easy  work  for  the  women 
either,  for  after  crossing  the  river  it  was  a 
long  climb  up  a  steep  mountain.  I  made 
payments  in  cloth;  the  amount  was  a  fathom, 
that  is,  the  distance  between  the  hands  when 
the  arms  are  held  out.  It  was  regarded  as  big 
pay!  and  both  sides  were  pleased,  they  and  I. 
I  gave  a  handful  of  salt  to  all  around,  and  that 
added  joy  to  pleasure.  Salt  is  a  great  thing 
to  have,  and  with  it  I've  got  much  food.  I 
have  read  of  salt  being  used  as  money,  but 
never  before  appreciated  how  valuable  it 
could  be. 

"The  country  is  wonderful  here,  the  most 
picturesque  of  any  that  I've  yet  come  upon. 
The  river  winds  through  places  where  the 
banks  are  of  solid  rock;  the  walls  rise  several 

[159] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

times  higher  than  the  church  tower  at  Hamp 
ton.  The  mountains  are  wooded,  and  in  ap 
pearance  are  not  unlike  the  mountains  of 
New  England.  The  river  has  almost  an  east 
and  west  course  through  this  particular  region, 
and  in  consequence  one  ridge  after  another 
can  be  seen  afar.  Down  the  ridges  from  the 
east  pours  the  light  in  the  morning,  and  from 
the  others  at  the  west  it  lingers  at  evening 
time.  At  night  the  Cross  hangs  in  the  south 
ern  sky,  rather  low  and  not  long  visible. 

"About  August  8,  1908.  Dear  Bill:  Your 
letter  written  on  the  9th  of  January  found 
me  on  the  26th  of  July.  I  can  give  you  but 
a  general  idea  about  where  I  was  at  the  time 
and  where  I  am  now.  If  you  look  on  the  map 
for  the  Cagayan  River  of  Luzon  and  follow 
the  crooked  line  of  the  River  into  what  is 
supposed  to  represent  the  mountains  of  South 
ern  Isabela  Province,  you  can  say  that  some 
place  in  there  is  where  I  am.  The  country  is 
unknown,  and  so  the  mapping  of  it  is  based 
largely  on  the  pipe  dreams  of  first  the  Spanish 
and  then  our  haughty  officers.  I  am  sojourn 
ing  among  a  wild  naked  folk  generally  called 
Ilongots.  They  are  a  mixed  race  of  Negritos 
and  Malays.  The  Negritos  are  pigmy  blacks, 
and  the  Malay  you  probably  have  heard  more 
[160] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

about.  Taft  calls  the  latter  "our  little  brown 
brothers,"  but  few  Americans  are  yet  ready 
to  accept  the  relationship,  especially  when 
it  refers  to  the  Cristiano  Filipino.  The  Ilon- 
gots  inhabit  isolated  spots  along  the  sources 
and  head  waters  of  the  Cagayan  and  the 
mountains  on  both  sides.  A  district  where 
a  given  group  lives  has  a  name.  When  your 
letter  came  to  me  I  was  at  what  is  called 
Kagadyangan;  it  was  on  the  Cagayan.  I  am 
now  at  a  place  called  Tamsi.  It  is  west  of  the 
River  and  in  the  mountains.  You  won't  find 
these  names  on  the  maps  because  the  makers 
of  maps  know  nothing  about  them  yet.  Your 
letter  was  fetched  with  a  bunch  of  other  mail 
by  some  Filipinos  who  came  to  trade  with 
these  Ilongots.  These  Filipinos  follow  in  my 
wake;  they  have  been  doing  it  since  I  came 
among  these  people.  They  were  afraid  to  do 
it  before.  They  fetch  salt,  cheap  cloth,  knives, 
and  pots.  They  get  in  return  chickens,  bees 
wax,  wild  honey,  mats,  baskets,  and  various 
sorts  of  foods.  Some  are  here  now,  and  when 
they  start  for  Echague,  Isabela,  I  will  give 
them  this  to  take  there  to  mail.  Your  letter 
was  delayed  at  the  Bureau  of  Science  by  a 
self-conscious  clerk.  It  takes  about  three 
weeks  of  steady  travelling  to  go  from  here  to 
[161] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Manila.  Though  it  is  not  far  as  the  crow 
flies. 

"I  am  living  a  pleasant  existence.  My 
happiness  would  be  increased  by  the  posses 
sion  of  a  good  rifle  and  a  shot  gun.  I've  a 
Luger  revolver  which  is  the  prettiest  arm  I've 
ever  had;  it  shoots  with  tremendous  velocity 
but  it  has  no  stopping  power  except  when  it 
catches  the  recipient  where  he  lives.  I  was 
very  foolish  when  I  left  the  States  by  faith 
fully  following  the  advice  of  Philippine  offi 
cials  whom  I  met  out  there,  men  who  claimed 
to  know  the  islands  and  the  conditions  pre 
vailing  here.  So  I  left  my  equipments  that  I 
had  in  the  northern  woods.  The  out  of  door 
life  here  is  unlike  anything  we  have  at  home, 
and  the  wild  man  here  is  not  the  camper  that 
the  Indian  is.  But  we  get  along  pretty  well. 
On  the  hunt  and  hike  I  take  more  pains  with 
my  sleeping  place.  I  do  it  in  the  Indian  way, 
and  let  them  sit  up  the  greater  portion  of  the 
night  hugging  their  tiny  little  fire,  so  small 
that  my  hat  could  almost  cover  it.  These 
people  take  no  particular  pleasure  in  a  night. 
It  is  a  period  of  time  the  sooner  over  with  the 
better.  They  do  as  much  if  not  more  sleeping 
by  day. 

"But  when  I'm  in  a  given  district  for  some 

[162] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

time,  I  live  more  comfortably  than  among 
Indians.  Their  houses  are  bamboo  structures 
thatched  with  long  grass  or  palm  leaf.  They 
stand  high  on  lofty  poles  or  in  the  forks  and 
branches  of  trees.  The  Ilongot  is  not  at  peace 
with  all  the  world,  and  so  his  dwelling  serves 
the  purpose  also  of  a  watch  tower  or  fort.  It 
always  commands  all  possible  approach,  and 
often  commands  a  view  of  large  distances. 
With  the  kind  of  warfare  these  people  wage 
against  their  enemies,  it  is  a  difficult  house  to 
get  to.  The  long  ladder  leading  up  to  the 
entry  way  is  either  pushed  down  or  pulled  in 
at  night.  At  dusk  the  people  often  set  sharp 
pointed  bamboo  sticks  in  the  ground  round 
about  the  house,  planting  them  thick  and 
setting  them  to  point  in  every  direction.  The 
points  are  so  sharp  that  they  are  deep  in  the 
foot  or  leg  of  a  trespasser  before  he  knows 
what  he  has  run  into.  They  are  the  best 
'keep  off  the  premises'  signs  that  I've  ever 
seen.  When  Taft  says  that  peace  reigns 
throughout  the  islands,  wink  the  other  eye. 
I'm  in  an  ideal  spot,  far  from  officials  of  any 
sort.  And  it  is  given  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
a  whole  lot  of  things  at  close  hand.  You  know 
the  saying  about  the  mice  when  the  old  cat 
is  somewhere  else. 

[163] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

"I've  never  been  in  a  place  where  deer 
were  so  many;  but  venison  is  not  the  refresh 
ing  bite  as  at  home.  Do  you  know  the  wild 
carabao,  sometimes  called  the  wild  buffalo? 
That  animal  offers  the  best  sport  of  anything 
out  here.  It  is  a  fighter  all  the  time,  will  often 
give  chase  like  the  grizzly  on  general  princi 
ples.  It's  all  day  with  a  man  if  he  wounds  one 
and  the  animal  is  between  him  and  a  tree  or  a 
place  of  refuge.  I  had  the  great  pleasure  of 
killing  a  whopper  one  day.  It  would  take 
pages  to  tell  of  the  thrilling  joy  an  Ilongot 
and  I  had  in  doing  it.  I  caught  the  animal 
below  but  a  little  back  of  the  horn  on  the  right 
side,  and  it  dropped  like  lead.  I  used  a  dum 
dum  and  the  ball  lodged  in  the  brain.  It  was 
great  sport,  and  about  200  of  us  ate  nothing 
but  carabao  for  three  days.  I  can't  describe 
the  meat.  It  is  reddish  like  beef  salted  down; 
rather  strong  tasting  and  is  far  less  delectable 
than  beef,  buffalo,  moose,  and  caribou.  Wild 
hog  is  the  best  of  game  meats,  wild  chicken  is 
the  best  of  birds,  and  the  big  dove  the  next. 
The  Ilongots  supply  me  with  camote — a  kind 
of  coarse  sweet-potato,  wild  tomatoes  about 
the  size  of  large  marbles,  bananas  of  various 
flavors, — from  sweet  to  those  that  taste  like 
squash, — rice,  wild  honey,  and  a  few  other 
[164] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

foods.  Thus  you  see  I  am  not  quite  starving. 
Yet  despite  this  variety,  I'd  like  now  and  then 
something  I've  been  brought  up  on.  It 
doesn't  quite  reach  the  creases  between  the 
ribs,  it  doesn't  give  bottom,  as  we  say  in  the 
west.  They  have  a  soupy  drink  called  basi. 
It  is  made  from  sugar  cane  and  looks  and 
tastes  like  bad  vinegar.  It  is  a  stand-off  be 
tween  basi  and  beer  in  the  matter  of  putting 
one  in  the  proper  mental  and  physical  state. 
If  one  can  drink  much  beer,  one  can  drink 
much  basi,  and  vice  versa  perhaps.  After  a 
big  killing,  or  a  big  catch  of  fish,  or  when 
entertaining  visitors,  much  basi  flows.  It  be 
gins  to  run  about  an  hour  before  meal  time, 
continues  throughout  the  eating,  and  after  if 
any  is  left.  That  is  the  time  my  friends  tell 
me  how  much  they  love  me,  what  a  good  man 
I  am,  how  sorry  they  will  be  when  we  part, 
and  some  more  idle  talk.  Of  course  like  peo 
ple  elsewhere  they  find  it  convenient  to  forget 
all  about  what  they  have  said  when  they  have 
slept  off  the  effects. 

"...  I  am  due  [in  Manila]  about  January. 
It  will  be  for  a  brief  stay,  to  ship  away  some 
stuff  to  the  Chicago  Museum,  reequip,  clean 
up,  and  see  how  much  English  I  still  know.  I 
may  go  over  to  Hong  Kong  to  do  some  of  this. 
[165] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  is  going  on 
in  the  big  world  beyond  the  mountains.  I  am 
wondering  who  the  men  are  that  have  been 
nominated  by  the  big  parties,  who  won  the 
track  and  field  sports,  baseball,  and  the  boat 
race.  Are  the  Japs  still  Cocky? 

"This  would  have  been  still  longer,  but  I 
find  the  man  who  is  going  to  Echague  is  soon 
leaving.  So  here  go  all  sorts  of  big  wishes  for 
you  and  Henry  and  the  Colonel.  I'm  glad 
you  showed  them  the  other  letter,  and  you 
may  do  the  same  with  this,  and  others,  if  they 
find  it  worth  while  reading. 

"Tamsi,  August  21.  [Diary.].  Inamon  * 
has  the  following  account  of  the  way  he 
slaughtered  a  house  full  of  people  in  Sinadipan. 
There  were  a  number  in  the  party,  and  they 
divided  themselves  into  five  to  take  in  the 
five  houses  they  were  to  attack.  The  house 
he  went  to  happened  to  be  full — three  men 
and  several  women.  The  men  lay  asleep  about 
one  hearth.  He  disposed  of  two  with  ease, 
the  first  as  he  lay  asleep.  The  sound  of 
his  grunt  woke  a  man  who  lay  next  to  the 
corner  of  the  house.  As  he  rose  Inamon 

*  Inamon,  the  Kapunwan  or  oapitan  of  Tamsi,  a  local  hero  in 
whose  house  Dr.  Jones  was  then  staying.  Note  this  creature's  be 
havior  during  the  typhoon,  pages  174  and  175. 

[1661 


IN    THE    WILDS 

dealt  him  a  blow  on  the  head,  splitting  it 
open  above  the  forehead.  A  man  who  lay 
on  one  side  of  the  hearth  gave  him  much 
trouble;  by  him  he  was  wounded  on  the  lower 
arm  and  wrist.  It  was  not  till  he  had  chopped 
his  lower  arm  and  knocked  his  bolo  aside  that 
he  finally  disposed  of  him.  He  ripped  up  a 
woman.  ...  He  grabbed  a  child  that  called 
to  its  father  and  dissevered  its  hand.  He 
slew  the  women  about  the  hearth  as  they 
screamed  in  terror.  He  said  that  when  he 
finished  the  blade  of  his  bolo  was  as  dull  as 
the  back.  When  he  had  finished,  he  called  to 
his  companions  to  come  over  and  cut  off  the 
heads. 

"About  August  25,  1908.  My  dear  Dr. 
Boas:  I  am  writing  from  the  country  of  the 
Ilongots  at  a  place  in  the  mountains  of  South 
ern  Isabela  ...  an  Ilongot  district  called 
Tamsi.  It  lies  in  the  mountains,  a  day's 
journey  afoot  west  of  the  Cagayan  River.  .  .  . 
There  is  nominal  peace  among  the  four  dis 
tricts,  but  it  is  not  of  a  kind  to  establish  much 
confidence.  Individuals  of  one  district  will 
kill  any  individual  of  another  if  the  oppor 
tunity  is  given;  and  in  turn  these  same  in 
dividuals  are  marked  for  slaughter  by  all  of 
the  others.  Dumubatu  is  on  pretty  good 
[167] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

terms  with  all  the  other  three  districts. 
Pariipagan  and  Kagadyanan  are  intimate. 
It  seems  desirable  to  have  some  enemies,  and 
so  there  is  no  attempt  to  have  peace  with 
places  like  Kabinanan,  Ifugu,  and  others  up 
the  River,  and  with  others  off  toward  the 
west  in  the  direction  of  Nueva  Vizcaya.  .  .  . 

"Village  life  as  I  know  it  in  America  is 
wholly  absent.  .  .  .  The  dwellings  here  at 
Tamsi  are  nearer  together  than  at  the  other 
places.  As  a  rule  here  on  the  high  slope  of  a 
mountain  stands  a  dwelling  in  the  midst  of  a 
clearing  of  deadened  trees  left  standing.  On 
one  side  may  be  a  dense  growth  of  sugar  cane 
with  the  camote  patch  near  at  hand;  on  the 
other  is  the  ground  where  the  corn  had  stood 
but  is  now  green  with  growing  rice.  .  .  . 
Another  dwelling  stands  yonder,  farther  down 
the  mountain,  in  the  midst  of  another  group 
of  white  and  gray  barren  trees.  Down  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  is  a  third.  ...  A  thin 
trail  leads  from  one  dwelling  to  another.  On 
coming  to  a  brook,  it  may  come  up  immedi 
ately  on  the  other  side  or  not  be  found  again 
for  some  distance  up  or  down  the  stream. 
The  bed  of  a  stream  is  often  the  best  way  to 
travel. 

"The  dwellings  stand  off  the  ground.  .  .  . 

[168] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

The  older  dwellings  are  pretty  filthy  dens  and 
are  full  of  ants  and  roaches.  A  heavy  line  of 
deer  and  hog  skulls  and  jawbones  hang  from 
the  top  girders  of  the  older  houses.  They  are 
not  trophies.  They  are  kept  because  it  is 
said  that  if  thrown  away  the  hunter  will  not 
have  good  luck  in  hunting.  Low  structures 
are  set  on  the  ground  for  the  people  to  flee 
into  in  times  of  heavy  wind.  .  .  . 

" .  .  .  Night  to  these  people  is  not  a  period 
of  time  to  be  especially  enjoyed.  Not  long 
after  they  lie  down  to  sleep,  some  one  be 
comes  chilled  and  so  rises  to  feed  the  fire  that 
has  burned  low.  Another  rises,  and  then  an 
other,  till  at  last  round  about  the  fire  they  sit, 
chewing  betel  nut  and  talking  and  laughing. 
Then  one  by  one  they  fall  back  to  sleep,  only 
to  rise  again  later,  repeating  this  over  and  over 
till  the  break  of  day.  Then  up  they  rise  one 
at  a  time,  and  sit  as  if  fixed  to  their  seats. 
When  not  gazing  blankly  into  space,  they  are 
scratching  their  lousy  heads;  for  of  all  the 
lousy  people  that  I've  ever  seen  these  are  the 
lousiest.  As  if  by  accident,  some  one  finally 
rises  to  the  feet.  Another  catches  the  sug 
gestion,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  they  are 
all  off  to  their  various  occupations.  Any 
time  between  eight  and  ten  the  women  return 

[169] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

with  rice  and  camote;  and  if  the  men  have 
gone  to  hunt  or  fish  and  have  been  lucky 
they  come  with  what  they've  got.  As  soon 
as  these  things  are  cooked,  the  first  meal  of 
the  day  is  eaten.  .  .  . 

"They  hunt  deer  and  hog  with  the  bow 
and  arrow.  .  .  .  The  game  must  pass  within 
twenty  yards  for  a  man  to  be  certain  of  hit 
ting  it;  even  then  his  arrow  often  flies  wide. 
Most  of  the  marksmanship  I've  seen  thus  far 
would  be  poor  shooting  among  Indians.  An 
Ilongot  is  content  to  have  the  arrow  hit  any 
where;  the  point  of  the  arrow  is  that  of  a 
harpoon  with  a  thong  attached  to  the  shaft; 
this  shaft  becomes  caught  in  a  tangle  of  grass 
or  in  the  thicket,  and  then  the  victim  is  held 
until  the  dogs  come  up  and  bring  it  to  bay.  .  .  . 

"They  fight  with  the  bow  and  arrow,  spear, 
bolo,  and  shield.  .  .  .  They  cut  off  the  head 
of  the  slain,  chop  out  the  bosom,  bone  and 
all,  down  to  the  lowest  ribs;  cut  out  the  heart, 
and  dissever  a  finger.  .  .  .  The  companions 
of  the  slayer  hack  the  body  with  bolos  to  gain 
second  honors.  The  slayer  wears  the  beak 
of  the  red-bill  standing  out  from  the  forehead 
with  prongs  of  wood  reaching  overhead.  His 
companions  wear  the  tail  feathers  of  a  rooster 
in  a  tuft  on  the  head.  But  in  either  case  the 
[1701 


IN    THE    WILDS 

man  must  be  unmarried,  otherwise  he  does 
not  wear  the  symbols. 

".  .  .  There  is  a  great  deal  of  singing. 
One  class  of  songs  is  sung  when  chopping  in 
the  clearings,  another  when  planting,  and  so 
on  with  other  activities  like  hunting,  fighting, 
putting  babes  to  sleep,  and  praying.  In  fact 
about  all  the  songs  I've  heard  are  prayers. 
I've  heard  none  sung  merely  for  fun;  it  sur 
prises  me  in  view  of  the  fact  that  this  folk  is 
so  light-minded.  .  .  . 

".  .  .  The  Ilongot  easily  gives  expression 
to  his  emotions.  He  is  a  loud  talker  and 
is  fond  of  animated  conversation.  He  will 
break  in  on  a  man  who  is  talking,  drown  him 
under  with  a  louder  voice.  In  an  assembly 
all  try  to  talk  at  the  same  time;  it  is  a  din  of 
confused  voices.  They  use  much  gesture  and 
exclamation,  and  follow  it  up  with  facial  and 
eye  expression.  When  these  seem  inadequate 
in  telling  of  an  incident  considered  interesting 
they  will  act  it  out  in  pantomime.  It  is  not 
the  fashion  to  practice  restraint.  I've  never 
seen  a  people  more  given  to  nonsense;  they 
swing  into  it  without  any  effort  whatever. 
They  laugh  as  loud  as  they  talk.  Their  wit 
runs  on  things  obscene,  the  favorite  kind  on 
sex  and  the  sexual  desires.  They  cry  easily. 

[171] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

They  readily  lie  down  before  an  obstacle  that 
seems  formidable.  I  have  seen  little  that 
would  make  me  think  that  they  ever  steal. 
But  they  lie  as  easily  as  they  breathe.  It  was 
at  first  annoying  to  have  them  smile  good 
naturedly  when  I  caught  them  in  a  barefaced 
lie.  They  say  it  is  nothing,  that  it  is  the  way 
with  all  men  everywhere.  On  the  other  hand 
they  condemn  those  who  lie  to  them.  .  .  . 

"About  August  25.  ...  I  am  glad  my 
Fox  texts  are  finally  out.  I  am  getting  some 
complimentary  notices  from  my  co-workers.* 
My  O  jib  way  will  be  much  better  if  I  ever 
finish  that  work.  A  man  is  here  to  take  my 
letters  to  Echague.  That  is  great  luck.  .  .  . 

"Tamsi,  October  4-10.  [Diary.]  The  night 
was  very  warm,  despite  the  rain  that  fell 
at  intervals  from  dusk  till  this  morning.  At 
about  seven  it  began  to  rain  rather  heavily. 
At  the  same  time  a  northwest  wind  began  to 
blow  f  .  .  .  with  increasing  velocity.  ...  As 

*  One  of  these  wrote:  "Your  Fox  texts  have  come  to  hand,  and 
everyone  who  sees  them  is  delighted.  They  are  the  first  collection 
of  Indian  stories  I  have  ever  been  able  to  read  through  at  a  sitting 
merely  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  You  have  certainly  set  a  new  stand 
ard  of  rendering,  which  those  not  thoroughly  acquainted  with  an 
Indian  language  will  find  it  impossible  to  follow,  and  those  who  have 
such  knowledge  will  find  it  difficult  to  equal." 

t  Three  typhoons  swept  over  Tamsi  between  October  4  and  Octo 
ber  15.  1908. 

[in] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

the  wind  increased,  limbs  began  to  crack  and 
fall;  here  and  there  down  crashed  a  deadened 
tree.  At  the  sound  of  the  roar  of  the  wind 
and  at  the  sight  of  the  falling  timber,  people 
began  to  leave  their  houses  and  to  betake 
themselves  to  the  low  storm  shelters.  They 
carried  out  their  pots,  baskets,  weapons,  and 
other  petty  possessions.  The  pots  they  laid 
on  the  ground  out  of  range  of  any  possible 
falling  tree;  the  rest  they  took  into  the  shel 
ters.  Inamon  and  Lima  waited  for  Romano 
and  me,  but  as  we  seemed  slow  in  starting 
they  began  to  be  excited.  .  .  ,  Inamon  began 
to  grow  peevish.  His  behavior  showed  him 
to  be  very  much  frightened.  Presently  he 
began  to  scold  his  wife  .  .  .  and  hurled  ugly 
epithets  at  his  little  daughter.  ...  I  then 
told  him  and  his  wife  to  go.  I  had  Romano 
put  the  bags  and  effects  into  shape  and  then 
to  follow.  ...  I  stayed  partly  to  see  the 
wonderful  scene  that  was  taking  place.  The 
mountains  dip  into  a  hollow  north  of  Tamsi, 
and  through  this  gap  the  wind  was  rushing. 
The  course  of  the  wind  was  from  the  north 
west,  and  it  came  with  a  roar  like  that  of  a 
railway  train  over  a  bridge.  Throughout  the 
clearings  the  limbs  were  snapping  and  trees 
were  falling.  At  every  heavy  crash  the  women 

[173] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

set  up  a  wail  for  the  rice  that  was  being  de 
stroyed.  Finally  I  had  to  give  up  dodging 
the  wood  that  came  flying  about  where  I 
stood,  and  join  the  people  in  the  shelters.  .  .  . 
By  noon  the  wind  was  playing  havoc.  .  .  . 
When  I  went  from  one  shelter  to  another  the 
rain  cut  my  face  like  hail.  ...  It  was  with 
an  effort  that  I  could  keep  my  feet.  .  .  .  The 
wives  and  mothers  of  the  absent  hunters  kept 
wailing,  saying  that  they  were  slain  by  the 
storm.  All  the  women  wailed  for  the  rice, 
cane,  and  fruit  in  the  fields.  The  wailing  was 
not  loud  but  in  low  tones,  sometimes  with 
tears  and  as  often  without.  The  men  wailed 
in  the  same  tone,  but  what  they  said  was  gen 
erally  a  complaint  against  the  storm.  The 
shelters  were  dark  enough  inside  even  when 
an  end  was  open,  but  when  both  ends  were 
closed  tight,  it  was  as  black  as  night  there.  .  .  . 
The  people  could  not  stand  the  sight  of  what 
was  going  on  outside.  And  when  a  crash  was 
heard  they  would  cover  their  faces  and 
wail.  ...  I  went  down  to  a  shelter  where 
Inamon  was,  when  the  storm  was  pushing 
over  the  granaries  and  sending  down  big  trees. 
He  sat  hugging  a  few  coals  that  were  almost 
dead;  he  shivered  as  if  he  were  suffering  from 
cold;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  much 

[174] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

frightened.  His  manner  somehow  struck  me 
as  funny,  and  I  broke  out  into  laughter. 
'Don't  laugh,  don't  laugh!'  he  exclaimed. 
'This  is  no  time  to  laugh.  We  shall  surely 
die.'  Presently  I  pulled  out  a  cigarette  and 
also  gave  him  one.  He  would  not  light  his. 
Presently  he  said  with  much  emotion — 'Do 
fling  that  away.  It  troubles  me  to  see  you 
smoking.  It  angers  the  storm.  Don't  you 
hear  it  rage  louder  when  you  smoke?'  I  did 
as  he  asked,  and  he  was  much  relieved.  The 
lamentations  and  cries  going  on  at  different 
places  close  about  me,  showed  me  that  I  was 
in  a  cluster  of  shelters.  .  .  .  Mothers,  wives, 
and  sisters  were  weeping  for  the  absent  who 
had  gone  into  the  mountains  to  hunt.  'Alas, 
Dinampul  is  dead,  he  is  dead!'  wailed  Alan. 
And  in  this  wise  wept  others.  And  the  men 
groaned  in  a  low  quavering  tone.  .  .  . 

"I  had  a  rather  sleepless  time  where  I  was. 
The  place  was  crowded,  the  smoke  was  thick, 
and  the  naked  folk  smelt.  Mice  persistently 
nibbled  on  my  shoes  or  on  the  belt  and 
holster  of  my  revolver,  which  I  used  for  a 
pillow.  And  so  I  spent  much  of  the  time 
watching  the  fire  and  the  tangle  of  naked  legs 
that  stuck  out  on  all  three  sides  of  the  hearth. 
The  dogs  had  the  other  side.  .  .  . 

[175] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

"The  unkind  weather  seems  to  have  taken 
the  life  out  of  the  people.  .  .  .  They  keep 
whining.  .  .  .  They  seem  ready  to  lie  down 
and  quit.  .  .  .  Since  the  foul  weather  set  in 
this  house  has  been  a  general  gathering  place 
for  the  greater  part  of  Tamsi.  The  people 
come  out  of  their  shelters  and  lounge  about 
in  here  till  after  the  morning  meal.  When 
their  bellies  are  filled  they  depart.  Their 
aspect  is  most  repelling.  Hands,  faces,  and 
bodies  are  smeared  with  blotches  of  various 
kinds  of  dirt ;  and  their  stiff  hair  is  dishevelled. 
As  they  sit  and  scratch  their  lousy  selves  they 
seem  more  like  beasts  than  human  beings. 
These  women  suckle  puppies.  I  saw  one 
woman  giving  suck  to  two,  one  at  a  time, 
while  she  wove  a  bag  and  gossiped  with  an 
other  woman. 

"Tamsi,  November  11.  Blue  skies  have 
appeared  once  more  and  the  mountain  brooks 
are  running  with  clear  water.  This  gives  me 
a  hope  that  the  Cagayan  is  becoming  shallow 
enough  to  permit  Filipino  traders  to  come  up 
and  trade  again.  Therefore  I  am  writing  this 
to  have  it  ready  for  the  first  party  that  drops 
in.  It  has  been  many  weeks  since  I  sent  my 
last  letter.  .  .  . 

"Alikod,  January  4,  1909.  See  the  time 
[1761 


IN    THE    WILDS 

that  has  elapsed  since  I  wrote  the  last  sen 
tence  at  Tamsi.  I  waited  to  finish  the  letter 
when  some  one  would  take  it  to  Echague,  but 
days,  then  weeks,  finally  months  passed;  and 
I  was  alone  with  my  naked  brown  friends. 
Rains  came,  not  in  silent,  gentle,  soothing 
showers,  but  in  torrents  and  loads;  it  con 
tinued  night  and  day,  day  and  night.  The 
brooks  filled,  and  the  great  River  became 
swollen.  No  one  could  come  to  or  go  from 
where  I  was.  I  had  no  knowledge  of  what 
was  going  on  where  people  read  papers  and 
wrote  letters.  Last  evening  a  messenger  came 
from  the  Constabulary  officer  at  Ilagan  in 
command  of  the  district,  to  find  out  where 
and  how  I  was.  He  came  with  a  bundle  of 
mail.  In  it  was  a  bunch  of  lovely  letters.  .  .  . 
"Alikod,  Nueva  Vizcaya,  probably  Janu 
ary  4,  1909. — My  dear  Dorsey :  If  I  had  known 
or  had  some  sort  of  word  that  you  were  to  be 
at  Echague  and  would  probably  not  come  up 
because  of  the  high  water,  I  would  have  taken 
to  the  mountains,  then  into  the  plain,  with 
my  Ilongots  and  gone  to  see  you.  I  ought  to 
have  foreseen  some  such  event,  because  I 
could  have  done  it  and  at  the  same  time 
helped  you  to  meet  your  dates  farther  on 
en  route.  My  men  would  have  had  to  run 

[177] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

the  chance  of  a  scrap  with  their  enemies,  but 
that's  part  of  the  game  and  that  is  why  I'm 
sitting  in.  I  wanted  you  to  come  to  the 
Ilongot  country  and  see  the  people  and  their 
stamping  ground,  because  I  take  them  to  be 
the  wildest  Malays  in  Luzon.  If  you  had  got 
here  I  would  have  seen  you  safely  back  to 
Echague  by  the  overland  route.  It  would 
have  been  stiff  hiking,  a  little  slow,  but  noth 
ing  more.  .  .  .  Your  Lalloc  letter  of  Octo 
ber  8  ...  came  to  me  last  night  by  a  mes 
senger  whom  Captain  Bowers  sent  to  find 
out  where  and  how  I  was.  When  it  began  to 
set  in  and  rain  in  lively  earnest  I  gave  you  up, 
because  the  river  went  up  to  its  widest  banks, 
packed  up  my  impedimenta  and  came  on  to 
Alikod.  I  may  be  able  to  get  to  Ifugu,  2  days 
farther  up,  because  Alikod  is  keen  to  take  me 
there.  If  I  can  go  the  visit  will  be  but  for  a 
few  days,  because  I  want  to  gather  up  my 
stuff  and  take  it  to  Manila  at  the  first  op 
portunity.  ...  It  takes  a  long  time  to  move 
along  the  line  I'm  going,  because  the  districts 
are  so  afraid  of  each  other.  .  .  . 

"I  am  sorry  Cole  had  to  go  home.  I'll  stay 
and  see  what  I  can  do.  ...  I  believe  the 
culture  of  these  so-called  wild  tribes  of  the 
Islands  will  go  fast,  and  what  is  especially 

[178] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

needed  are  men  who  know  how  to  collect. 
Take  these  people,  for  example.  When  I  first 
came  among  them,  you  had  to  hunt  for  the 
one  who  had  commercial  cloth;  bark  cloth 
was  abundant.  Filipino  traders  followed  in 
my  wake,  and  now  they  all  have  cloth.  They 
had  no  matches  when  I  came;  they  used  noth 
ing  but  flint  and  steel.  I  had  a  time  to  find  a 
man  using  flint  and  steel  when  I  came  away 
from  Tamsi.  This  is  a  far  off  place  where  I 
am  now,  and  I  am  making  my  fire  collection 
before  the  river  goes  down  and  the  Filipinos 
arrive.  If  it  were  possible  for  these  people 
to  have  guns,  the  story  would  be  the  same; 
their  bows  and  various  kinds  of  arrows  would 
go  enseguida.  I  believe  as  soon  as  head  hunt 
ing  is  put  down  it  will  be  difficult  to  get  good 
spears,  shields,  and  the  various  accompani 
ments.  .  .  . 

"Alikod,  January  8.  ...  You  see  fair 
weather  is  coming  on  once  more,  and  at  such 
a  time  the  young  Ilongot's  fancy  turns  to 
longings  for  a  head.  The  young  bucks  are 
especially  anxious  to  go.  Let  me  tell  you  of 
an  experience  I  had  when  Bowers's  messenger 
fetched  me  my  stuff.  His  carriers  were  mostly 
from  Panipagan,  a  place  which  owes  Alikod 
five  heads.  The  next  night  the  Alikod  youths 
[179] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

implored  me  to  let  them  carry  out  their  heart 
felt  wish  and  take  the  six  or  eight  heads 
which  were  in  their  midst.  They  wanted  to 
do  it  while  the  Panipagan  folk  were  asleep. 
But  it  would  have  been  a  cold  blooded  mur 
der;  and  the  visitors  were  guests  in  my  house; 
they  were  people  whose  hospitality  I  had  en 
joyed,  and  therefore  I  could  not  stand  for 
what  Alikod  asked.  But  I  obtained  a  deal  of 
first  hand  knowledge  on  what  these  people 
call  warfare. 

"Alikod,  January  18.  I've  just  returned 
from  Ifugu.  It  was  an  entertaining  trip, 
profitable  in  some  particulars  and  disappoint 
ing  in  others.  Without  my  knowledge,  Alikod 
had  sent  for  Inamon,  the  head  man  of  Tamsi 
and  reputed  one  of  the  best  fighters  among 
all  the  Ilongots.  I  got  a  force  of  25  eager 
young  bucks  and  they  got  3  women  to  carry 
the  chow.  It  delighted  their  hearts  when  I 
put  them  under  the  command  of  Inamon, 
which  was  exactly  what  they  wanted.  You 
should  have  beheld  that  bunch  of  men,  armed 
with  all  their  fighting  material  and  keen  for  a 
scrap.  We  did  not  see  a  soul  in  Kabinanan 
territory.  We  spent  one  night  on  the  road 
when  fires  signalled  round  about  us.  The 
thrill  was  exhilarating,  but  we  were  not  mo- 

[180] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

Jested.  That  day  and  night,  the  cautious, 
picturesque  manner  with  which  we  moved 
next  morning  into  Ifugu,  gave  me  many  a 
detail  of  the  way  these  people  fight.  You'll 
hear  it  all  one  of  these  days.  Well,  we  got 
into  Ifugu  without  a  fight.  Festivities  fol 
lowed,  the  most  interesting  being  the  making 
of  peace  between  Ifugu  and  Alikod.  Some 
Kabinanan  people  were  there;  they  sought 
shelter  in  Ifugu,  and  it  was  well  they  did.  I 
saw  my  first  head  ceremony,  but  the  head 
was  not  there.  My  Filipino  *  was  scared  out 
of  his  wits,  and  was  afraid  that  I  was  coming 
to  Ifugu  with  my  stuff,  f  I  would,  but  must 
turn  back  downstream  because  it  is  too  slow 
moving  along  this  way;  furthermore  my  col 
lection  is  gathering  and  I  am  compelled  to 
keep  it  with  me.  .  .  . 

"If  I  could  move  according  to  my  desire  I 
would  have  my  collection  at  the  Museum  by 
this  time.  Travelling  from  district  to  district 
is  exceedingly  slow,  and  I  am  dependent  en 
tirely  on  the  disposition  of  my  hosts.  Did 
Bowers  tell  you  how  he  got  as  far  as  Tamsi, 
and  could  get  no  farther?  He  would  not  have 
got  as  far  as  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  me. 

*  Romano  Dumaliang,  see  page  153. 
t  I.C.,  to  set  up  headquarters  at  Ifugu. 

[1811 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Climatic  conditions  hinder  me  less.  Bear  in 
mind  that  I  am  moving  as  fast  as  conditions 
will  permit.  It  is  not  like  among  the  Igorot 
where  there  are  trails.  There  are  no  trails 
here. 

"  Kagadyangan,  January  31.  Bernaldino 
came  yesterday  and  leaves  in  the  morning.  I 
was  off  on  a  hunt  and  did  not  return  till  a  few 
minutes  ago,  and  will  end  this  letter  written 
at  different  times.  ...  I  am  gathering  my 
stuff  and  having  a  couple  of  house  models 
made.  In  20  days  I  am  due  in  Dumubatu.  .  .  . 
I  am  well.  Remember  me  to  all  the  workers 
in  the  Museum.  ...  P.  S.  So  Harvard 
won  the  football  game  too!  Baseball,  boat 
race,  football! 

"Please  send  five  dollars  to  the  fund  for 
President  Eliot  according  to  the  enclosed 
pamphlet.  The  Filipino  trader  promises  to 
be  back  in  two  weeks,  and  I'll  try  to  have  a 
good  letter  for  him  to  take  back. 

"February  1.  My  dear  Simms:  You  can 
form  some  notion  of  where  I  was  and  still 
am  when  I  tell  you  that  the  Constabulary 
once  tried  following  my  track,  but  got  no 
farther  than  a  second  town.  I  helped  them 
to  get  there;  but  at  that  point  the  Ilongots 
quit  them  cold,  whereupon  they  beat  back  for 
[182] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

home  and  comfort.  The  rains  began  to  set 
in,  and  one  of  the  officers  wrote  me  with  what 
speed  they  went.  Don't  get  the  impression 
that  I  am  in  an  inaccessible  territory.  Far 
from  that.  Only  it  is  hell  for  people  who  are 
in  a  hurry,  can't  wait,  and  wish  to  see  action 
and  things  hum.  The  officer  in  command 
has  been  in  the  Islands  for  8  or  10  years,  but 
evidently  it  will  take  longer  to  teach  him  the 
ways  of  the  East  and  the  costumbre  of  the 
naked  little  brown  people.  ...  I  ought  to 
arrive  in  Manila  during  April.  I  don't  mean 
to  tarry  there  any  longer  than  it  takes  to 
ship  my  plunder  and  re-equip;  for  I  wish  to 
keep  moving  as  long  as  I  am  in  condition.  .  .  . 
I've  never  been  lonesome.  The  fascination  of 
the  wild  life  in  these  wild  hills,  and  ceaseless 
occupation  in  one  thing  and  another  have 
made  the  days  slip  by  only  too  rapidly.  It 
seems  that  I  came  only  yesterday.  Indeed, 
I  am  going  with  reluctance  down  into  the 
Cristiano  towns  where  men  go  in  bare  feet, 
shirt-tails,  and  trousers  rolled  up  to  the  knee; 
where  women  stride  along  with  a  hip  and 
shoulder  swing,  bosoms  raised,  and  a  mouth 
ful  of  a  12-inch  cigar.  You  know  the  familiar 
sight.  ...  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  come 
home.  ...  I  had  an  entertaining  letter  from 

[183] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

Lewis.  He  is  the  third  to  tell  me  that  there 
had  been  no  play  since  I  came  away.  I  hardly 
know  how  to  take  this  kind  of  thing  now.  Is 
it  that  I  was  a  little  frivolous?  that  I  interfered 
in  the  steady  industry  of  the  shop?  I  was 
never  regarded  as  a  very  gay  creature.  On 
the  contrary,  I  have  been  told  that  I  was  too 
sedate  and  serious.  Some  have  said  that  I 
should  have  been  a  parson,  that  in  fact  I  re 
minded  them  of  a  preacher  in  this  town  or 
one  in  that.  Well,  I  hope  all  work  will  be 
done  by  the  time  I  come  riding  in  on  the 
cars.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  journey  home  by 
way  of  Europe  is  less  exhausting.  I  hope  to 
have  Japan  on  my  way  when  I  go,  whether 
it  be  via  Europe  or  the  Pacific.  Whatever 
your  notion  of  me,  I  am  still  a  colt  and  green 
pastures  and  still  waters  are  good  to  my  sight 
and  ever  alluring.  You  know  what  some  one 
has  said  about — 'You  go  this  way  but  once.5 
My  gait  is  never  fast,  but  I  like  it  rich  with 
vision.  .  .  . 

"February  25,  1909.  My  dear  Dorsey: — I 
am  on  the  Cagayan,  going  downstream  and 
heading  for  Mayoyao  and  Manila.  The 
cholera  is  on  at  Echague  and  the  other  towns 
below,  and  is  said  to  be  moving  this  way. 
Accordingly  it  may  be  best  for  me  to  hang  up 

[184] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

at  Dumubatu  till  I  hear  that  the  plague  is 
checked.  Word  was  sent  to  me  that  it  was 
raging  among  the  paisanos  up  to  a  town  or 
two  below  Echague.  This  is  to  be  regretted, 
but  I  am  glad  to  know  about  it  here.  I  can 
keep  at  work  here  all  the  time,  but  in  a 
Cristiano  barrio  I  might  be  compelled  to 
champ  the  bit  with  all  this  stuff  with  me. 
Before  the  cholera,  a  pest  came  and  took  off 
all  the  ponies  and  carabaos.  Previous  to  that 
came  the  typhoons  which  you  got  a  touch  of. 
The  Ilongots  would  say  that  surely  the  moun 
tain  gods  must  have  it  in  for  the  valley.  I 
believe  the  wet  season  has  at  last  come  to  an 
end,  and  the  change  will  be  welcome  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  it  is  a  change.  The 
river  is  still  pretty  full,  but  it  can  be  travelled 
by  lashing  two  rafts  together  side  by  side.  It 
was  risky  farther  up  where  the  rapids  are 
swifter  and  rocky  curves  more  frequent.  But 
I  passed  it  all  without  a  loss  of  a  single 
thing. 

"...  On  coming  back  to  the  river  I  found 
that  the  districts  had  been  pretty  well  knocked 
out  by  the  typhoons.  They  are  gradually 
recovering,  but  not  sufficiently  to  enable  me 
to  get  the  stuff  I  wanted.  What  I  have  is 
representative,  but  it  would  have  been  of 
[185] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

better  quality  had  I  been  able  to  take  it  out 
six  months  ago,  or  if  the  typhoons  had  not 
been  so  destructive.  They  say  that  these 
storms  were  the  worst  in  their  memory  or  that 
of  their  fathers.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  never 
saw  anything  like  'em.  Though  the  sight  of 
trees  going  down,  timbers  flying,  and  houses 
crashing  to  ruin  was  somewhat  disquieting, 
and  though  the  prolonged  din  and  roar  of  the 
tempest  became  at  length  a  weariness  to  the 
spirit  and  the  flesh,  it  was  yet  a  wonderful 
thing  to  behold  all  nature  awake  and  in  anger, 
an  experience  thoroughly  worth  while  withal. 
The  rains  that  followed  became  as  feeble 
trickles,  sort  of  a  gentle  dew  from  heaven. 
Still  I  am  not  metamorphosed  into  a  duck  or 
frog. 

"I  tell  you  what,  but  I  dislike  leaving  this 
field.  I  am  departing  with  a  reluctant  heart, 
but  I  feel  the  silent  call  of  the  coast  east  of 
here,  and  realize  that  I  must  go.  Things  are 
happening  all  the  while,  not  that  they  never 
happened  before  but  because  I  had  not  yet 
tapped  the  broken  sources  of  things,  and  could 
not  see  or  hear  what  I  was  blindly  groping  for 
in  the  dark.  Ground  that  refused  to  give  way 
is  now  loosening  all  around.  You've  had  the 
experience  many  more  times  than  I,  and  so  it 
[1861 


IN    THE    WILDS 

is  nothing  new  to  you.  I  simply  make  men 
tion  of  it  to  have  you  know  at  what  stage 
psychologically  I've  arrived  in  the  life  of 
these  people. 

"Well,  at  last  I've  come  upon  the  tales. 
They  are  curious  creations,  and  some  will  at 
once  remind  you  of  North  American  variants 
not  only  as  to  incident  and  literary  elements 
but  as  to  the  cosmic  ideas  they  display.  I 
will  put  the  little  collection  together  and  send 
them  on  to  you  to  publish  wherever  you 
think  best.  Still  yet  am  I  unable  to  discern  if 
the  Ilongot  has  the  manito  in  the  Algonkin, 
Sioux,  or  Pawnee  sense.  His  anitu  is  a  real, 
tangible  thing  which  he  names  by  the  mean 
est  words  he  can  think  of.  In  fact  the  Ilongot 
is  very  uncomplimentary  toward  his  gods. 
He  will  go  through  the  list  with  you,  telling 
what  good  points  and  what  bad  points  this 
and  that  god  has,  and  at  the  end  he  will  curse 
the  whole  lot  and  say  they  are  no  good.  A 
rather  interesting  attitude  this,  psychologi 
cally.  ...  I  am  sending  my  boy  Romano 
down  to  Echague  with  this  and  other  mail 
to-day,  and  to  have  him  bring  back  word 
about  the  plague.  .  .  . 

"Dumubatu,  March  19,  1909.  My  dear 
Doctor  Dorsey: — I  thought  I  had  sent  you 

[1871 


WILLIAM    JONES 

my  last  letter  from  this  bunch  of  Ilongots,  but 
here  goes  another  because  I  have  a  chance  to 
send  it.  I  am  still  here  because  the  men  have 
not  made  balsas  enough  to  raft  me  and  my  all 
down  to  Echague.  When  Bowers  left  here 
last  fall  he  cleaned  up  all  the  balsas;  and 
though  the  river  has  fallen  two  months  earlier 
than  last  year  the  men  have  not  been  able  to 
build  other  balsas.  The  bamboo  material  is 
just  far  enough  away  to  make  it  risky  to  go 
for  it.  As  I  write  a  bunch  of  men  have  gone 
out  to  search  for  two  youths  who  went  for 
bamboo  yesterday  and  have  not  returned. 
You  see  the  weather  is  growing  more  torrid 
every  day,  and  the  sun  can  now  shine  for  a 
whole  day  at  a  time.  As  a  result  every  Ilongot 
house  is  on  the  watch  for  prowlers  looking  for 
heads,  and  ambitious  youths  are  off  looking 
for  the  same  in  other  districts.  As  Captain 
Bowers  said  at  Tamsi  when  the  Ilongots  re 
fused  to  do  his  bidding  because  what  he 
wanted  involved  a  taboo:  'This  may  be  good 
ethnology,  Jones,  but  it  makes  me  tired!' 
He  said  he  had  seen  many  foolish  people  in 
these  Islands,  but  the  Ilongot  was  the  worst 
of  them  all.  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  would 
agree  with  the  sentiments  he  expressed,  but  he 
is  probably  correct  when  he  thinks  the  Ilongot 
[188] 


IN    THE    WILDS 

exasperating  from  a  practical  point  of  view. 
I  shall  need  about  15  balsas.  I've  sent  for 
Panipagan  and  Kagadyangan  to  come  down 
with  8,  but  I  don't  know  what  is  keeping 
them.  I  would  not  bet  on  it,  but  I  believe  I 
shall  be  out  of  here  in  10  days. 

"I've  just  returned  from  a  visit  of  nearly 
a  week  in  the  mountains  at  the  west.  .  .  . 
What  wearied  me  was  to  hear  of  my  Alikod 
friends  off  on  a  head  hunt,  their  objective 
being  Gumiyod.  This  place  is  southwest  of 
Ifugu,  in  the  mountains,  and  is  said  to  be  a 
large  district.  I  tried  getting  there  once,  but 
my  friends  balked  on  account  of  the  rains,  the 
prospect  of  lack  of  food,  and  the  report  that 
a  war  party  of  Gumiyod  was  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Alikod.  They  wanted  to  get  on  the 
trail  of  the  party  and  cut  off  its  return.  Please 
don't  entertain  any  notion  that  I  am  seeking 
for  adventure.  Naturally  there's  a  little  risk, 
but  so  there  is  riding  in  the  cart  behind  the 
old  grey  mare.  The  point  is  this — warfare 
among  the  wild  men  of  Luzon  is  rapidly  being 
checked,  and  this  is  practically  the  only  terri 
tory  where  the  mice  have  free  play.  And  so 
all  I've  desired  and  still  desire  is  to  observe 
and  note  what  happens.  .  .  . 

"Smith  sent  me  word  that  the  cholera  was 

[189] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

being  checked  in  the  down  stream  towns. 
Hence  all  that  is  keeping  me  is  the  lack  of 
rafts,  but  these  I  can  get  in  time. 

"If  I  remember  it,  this  is  the  time  the 
winds  sweep  down  57th  Street,  the  chief 
janitor  is  economical  with  his  coal,  and  the 
pipes  gurgle  lazily.  I  hope  none  of  you  are 
frozen,  that  all  are  as  well  as  I  am." 


190] 


XVI 

DANGERS 

JONES  was  not  the  man  to  harp  on  diffi 
culty  in  his  own  life.  Whatever  hardships 
appear  in  the  foregoing  narrative,  it  is  plain 
that  he  encountered  them  all  alike  with 
patient  courage.  Yet  even  by  the  few 
glimpses  given  us,  we  may  see  clearly  one 
fact:  that  Jones  well  knew  how  bloody, 
childish,  and  bestial  were  the  folk  among 
whom  he  ate  and  slept,  and  that  he  made 
not  even  the  simplest  movement  rashly.  In 
deed,  we  may  see  more:  that  while  in  his  let 
ters  he  told  only  what  was  comfortable  and 
pleasant,  he  let  his  diary  confess,  by  sugges 
tion  here  and  there,  to  darker  things.  The 
letters  present  his  Ilongot  companions  as 
"little  naked  brownies,  very  kind"  to  him. 
The  diary  shows  them  otherwise.  It  is  in  the 
diary  that  they  act  from  day  to  day  their  real 
parts,  furtive,  ungrateful,  unclean.  It  is  in 
the  diary,  not  the  letters,  that  we  see  them 
housed  with  vermin  in  their  huts,  huddling 
beside  mangy  dogs  in  the  ashes,  tearing  with 
their  filed,  blue-black  teeth  the  flesh  of  a 
[191] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

dead  sow  that  stank,  talking  and  performing 
the  wildest  obscenity.  It  is  the  diary  which 
records  their  greed,  their  lies,  their  experi 
mental  threats  and  arrogance,  followed  by 
"the  same  old  cringing,  the  same  old  apologies 
and  evasions."  The  letters  do  not  mention 
that  houseful  after  houseful  of  drunken  blus 
terers,  met  by  a  kind  but  unshaken  fortitude, 
gave  in,  left  off  their  loud  menaces,  and 
kneeling,  repulsively  stroked  their  conqueror 
on  the  arms  and  legs.  Nor  do  the  letters  tell 
how  Jones,  one  day  at  Alikod,  facing  alone 
two  hundred  highland  warriors  greedy  for 
plunder,  informed  them  that  their  young 
men  were  weaker  than  women,  that  he  was 
ashamed  of  them  and  disappointed,  that  they 
could  go  now  and  relieve  him  of  their  society. 
All  this,  more  than  this,  our  dear  friend  met 
and  suffered  and  dared,  but  never  told:  it  is 
jotted  down  in  memoranda  which  he  thought 
nobody  else  would  see.  Not  fear,  but  re 
flection  and  the  sense  of  humor,  caused  him 
to  add — "If  these  people  would  only  stop  to 
think,  they  could  bring  almost  any  kind  of 
pressure  against  me." 

Besides    these    intimations    of    his    moral 
sovereignty,  the  private  journal  contains  our 
only  hint  that  Dr.  Jones  had  received  fore- 
[192] 


DANGERS 

warning;  that  at  night,  in  the  tangle  of  naked 
legs  and  half-sheathed  bolos  round  the  hearth, 
lighted  by  fire  or  the  smoking  rosin  stone,  he 
slept  with  his  head  pillowed  on  his  revolver, 
or  on  the  flanks  of  Dona  his  hound.  The 
diary,  but  no  letter,  speaks  out  as  follows: — 
"Saturday,  June  20  [at  Panipagan], — While 
at  tiffin  a  man  came  in  with  a  chicken.  It  was 
given  to  me  because  it  had  flown  near  my 
head  when  I  was  out  among  the  people  yes 
terday.  I  don't  remember  the  time,  place,  or 
hen;  but  they  said  it  really  happened,  and 
that  the  bird  was  destined  for  me.  I  took  it, 
and  gave  the  man  some  salt." — "Friday, 
August  28  [at  Tamsi], — The  Alikod  people 
had  an  interesting  story  to  tell  me  last  night. 
They  told  me  that  when  I  was  in  Panipagan 
a  plan  was  set  to  kill  me;  that  I  was  to  be 
made  to  pass  a  place  where  a  tree  would  be 
felled  upon  me;  that  the  tree  was  felled  but 
missed  me;  that  the  man  who  was  commis 
sioned  to  carry  this  out  was  Kandag,  .  .  . 
and  that  when  the  attempt  failed,  the  man 
had  fetched  me  a  chicken.  I  said  that  I  had 
been  given  a  chicken  by  a  man  who  claimed 
it  had  flown  by  my  head  and  was  therefore 
destined  for  me.  They  gave  this  the  laugh." 
Jones  knew  the  risk  he  ran  by  day  and 
[193] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

night.  He  was  not  foolhardy.  His  Indian 
caution  more  than  matched  the  wiles  of  these 
head-hunters,  his  sleep  was  infinitely  lighter 
than  theirs,  his  footfall  more  wary.  "I 
came,"  he  says  in  the  diary,  "upon  a  family 
resting  in  the  shade  of  a  booth,  and  was  on 
them  before  they  knew  anything  about  it. 
I've  done  this  so  many  times  that  I  am  now 
curious  to  know  if  it  can  be  connected  with 
poor  hearing."  In  another  passage  he  laughs 
to  scorn  the  night  guards  of  the  jungle  tribes, 
the  sentinels  of  their  war  parties,  and  their 
scouts.  We  may  be  sure,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  although  Jones  felt  his  watchfulness  to 
be  superior  to  theirs,  he  did  not  relax  it.  All 
up  and  down  the  Cagayan,  from  village  to 
trackless  village,  he  had  won  great  authority, 
which  he  used  without  fear,  single-handed, 
whether  leading  a  band  of  spearmen  through 
the  dense  kogon,  or  presiding  at  conferences, 
or  checking  massacre.  But  that  authority 
never  made  Jones  careless  or  secure:  he  main 
tained  it  by  vigilance,  and  pursued  his  policy 
of  quiet  friendship.  He  was  there  to  work,  to 
be  with  and  of  the  people  at  all  times,  in  dan 
ger  and  out:  to  work  and  watch  and  learn  and 
record.  This  he  did,  wisely  and  faithfully. 
Even  when  lying  sick  in  a  hut,  he  observed 
[194] 


DANGERS 

with  the  minutest  care  how  arrows  were  made 
and  bowstrings  twisted. 

What  Dr.  Jones  himself  thought  of  his  life 
and  labors,  we  read  in  the  following  letter. 
One  of  the  last  he  ever  wrote,  it  would  seem 
strangely  enough  to  review  all  his  experience 
under  the  approaching  shadow  of  the  close. 

"February  25,  1909.  Dear  Marlborough,— 
Your  letter  of  November  10th  came  to  me 
about  a  month  ago.  I  will  answer  it  now  and 
have  it  ready  to  send  when  the  chance  comes. 
It  was  good  to  hear  from  you,  Marlborough, 
a  happy  reminder  of  past  associations  of  the 
Academy  and  the  college  and  the  lads  we 
used  to  know.  I  wonder  how  the  men  are 
doing,  how  they  are  faring  in  the  game,  how 
many  rest  content  with  only  the  ante,  what 
ones  keep  opening  and  who  stay,  and  who 
keep  raising  the  limit.  As  for  me,  I  am  just 
so  so,  moving  along  in  an  even  gait,  sort  of  a 
dog-trot.  You  know  I  was  no  intellectual 
light,  no  winner  of  scholastic  honors  and  the 
other  worthy  prizes.  Therefore,  I'm  doing  no 
miracles,  nor  clouding  the  air  with  dust  and 
sand.  After  we  had  done  our  playful  stunts, 
drunk  the  punch  and  beer,  and  took  our 
leave-takings,  I  went  down  to  New  York  and 
became  connected  with  the  Museum  of  Natu- 

[1951 


WILLIAM    JONES 

ral  History  there.  I  was  with  the  institution 
for  4  years,  and  then  with  it  and  the  Carnegie 
Institution  for  2  more  years.  All  the  while  I 
put  the  springs,  summers,  and  falls  mostly  in 
the  wood  and  lake  country  of  the  North,  and 
wintered  in  the  big  city  which  I  came  to  love 
for  reasons  hard  to  define.  Then  a  couple  of 
years  ago  I  went  to  the  Field  Museum  of 
Natural  History  in  Chicago,  to  come  on  the 
chase  out  here.  I  had  a  pleasing  journey 
through  Japan  and  down  the  China  coast, 
lingering  here  and  there,  and  became  infected 
with  the  something  that  makes  those  who 
have  been  there  to  desire  to  return,  despite 
its  filth,  plagues,  and  all  the  other  horrors. 
My  work  makes  me  lead  the  life  of  a  gypsy, 
but  it  suits  my  heart  nevertheless.  I  was 
born  out  of  doors,  and  the  only  sheltered  life 
I  have  had  was  when  you  and  I  came  to  know 
each  other.  Now  it  looks  as  if  I  shall  keep 
on  under  the  open  sky,  and  at  the  end  lie 
down  out  of  doors,  which,  of  course,  is  as  it 
should  be.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  shall  re 
main  on  this  side  of  the  spinning  ball.  My 
stay  is  indefinite.  The  plan  was  for  me  to 
journey  also  to  other  islands  away  from  this 
Archipelago,  go  to  India,  and  the  good  old 
Lord  only  knows  where  else.  My  prayer  is 
[196] 


DANGERS 

that  I  may  have  the  health  and  life  to  do  it. 
I've  been  in  the  Islands  about  19  months. 
Thus  far  my  head  seems  clear,  heart  and 
lungs  in  good  working  order,  so  far  as  I  know. 
Therefore,  when  you  come  out  to  the  Islands, 
I  shall  very  likely  be  somewhere  around.  My 
address  is  always  with  the  Bureau  of  Science, 
Manila.  And  if  you  send  word  there  telling 
where  you  are,  I  shall  get  it  some  time.  Don't 
become  impatient  if  you  don't  receive  an  im 
mediate  reply,  for  I  am  generally,  as  at 
present,  out  of  the  reach  of  mail  and  tele 
graphic  communication.  For  that  matter,  it 
does  not  necessarily  mean  that  because  one 
lives  near  or  along  a  mail  and  telegraphic 
route,  one  will  get  the  letters  and  telegrams 
sent  to  one.  This  is  the  Philippines  and  not 
the  U.  S.  A.,  so  smother  your  wrath  and  act 
as  if  you  don't  give  a  darn,  whether  you  feel 
like  it  or  not,  when  a  letter  or  telegram  goes 
astray. 

"I  am  still  up  the  Cagayan  River  in  East 
ern  Luzon  sojourning  among  the  wild  folk 
called  Ilongots.  I  was  further  up  the  River, 
but  am  now  heading  down  stream.  It  is  no 
use  for  me  to  give  names  of  places,  for  none  of 
them  are  on  the  map.  The  people  who  made 
the  map  of  this  country  were  a  cheerful  lot. 
[197] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

They  did  it  on  their  imagination  because  it 
was  a  little  inconvenient  to  come  up  and  do  a 
pretty  picture  of  the  real  thing.  I  am  heading 
for  Manila,  but  I  have  word  that  the  cholera 
is  doing  mischief  in  the  Cristiano  pueblos 
down  stream.  I've  a  lot  of  plunder  on  my 
hands,  things  which  these  people  make,  and 
rather  than  run  the  risk  of  being  held  up 
where  church  bells  are  tolling  for  the  dead, 
I've  decided  to  remain  where  I  am  for  a  while. 
Hence  it  will  be  April  or  May  before  I  can 
reach  Manila.  I  don't  mind  being  here.  In 
fact  I  enjoy  it.  I've  been  among  these  people 
now  for  about  ten  months,  having  their 
presence  day  and  night.  On  the  whole,  I've 
had  a  pretty  good  time.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
society  of  the  Ilongot  that  has  enchanted  me, 
but  rather  the  free  life  in  these  wild,  rugged 
hills  and  silent  gloomy  jungles.  The  Ilongot 
interests  me  only  in  an  objective  sense,  for 
what  he  has  and  does,  the  way  he  lives  and 
dies,  his  relations  toward  his  fellow  men  and 
how  he  adjusts  himself  to  the  narrow  world 
about  him.  There  are  no  trails  in  the  country 
of  these  people,  and  it  is  all  foot  work.  In 
going  from  one  district  to  another,  the  way 
is  up  and  down  mountains,  along  and  over 
bogs  and  boulders,  through  dense  thickets 

[1981 


DANGERS 

and  tall  razor-bladed  grass,  up  and  down 
streams  up  the  ankle  or  to  the  waist.  Deer 
and  wild  hogs  are  abundant.  Where  the 
country  is  open  I  can  get  a  little  hunting  like 
at  home.  But  the  greater  part  of  the  hunting 
is  with  dogs.  The  dogs  jump  the  game  and 
the  men  lie  in  wait  for  it  to  pass  at  an  exit 
and  send  an  arrow  into  it.  I've  had  some 
carabao  hunting,  but  steel  nosed  bullets  are 
only  ticklers.  Unless  you  catch  the  beast 
where  it  lives  your  shooting  is  only  target 
practice.  A  30-30  soft  nose  would  do  the 
trick,  for  it  has  the  smashing  power  to  stop 
the  animal.  Be  on  your  guard  if  you  hunt 
the  animal  when  you  come  out  here.  It's  a 
fighter  all  the  time,  and  an  ugly  one  at  that. 
When  it  throws  up  its  head  on  seeing  you,  it 
is  coming,  and  coming  like  hell.  So  what 
you  do,  do  it  P.  D,  Q.  But  it's  fine  sport,  and 
very  satisfying  when  successfully  over.  The 
military  haven't  subdued  this  neck  of  the 
woods  yet.  That  is  one  reason  why  I  made  a 
bee-line  for  it.  My  friends  still  hunt  heads 
as  they've  done  since  days  far  back  in  time. 
When  you  come  and  we  are  in  the  shade  of  a 
cool  verandah  with  a  little  'pizen'  and  rolled 
dusky  leaves,  I'll  tell  you  a  whole  lot  of  this 
life  and  country.  I  am  looking  forward  to 
[199] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

seeing  you  now.  I  shall  have  a  lot  to  ask. 
My  memory  is  poor,  but  a  few  things  still 
hang  on 

"And  so  you  are  married  and  have  a 
growing  daughter.  Well,  that  is  pretty  fine, 
Marlborough.  You  and  Don  and  some  of 
the  others  are  pretty  lucky.  Occasionally  I 
get  an  announcement  of  this  man  and  of  that 
getting  married,  but  it  is  always  a  long  while 
after  the  event.  For  I  have  grown  used  to 
getting  letters  in  a  bunch  after  I  come  in  from 
a  long  trip.  It  has  been  bad  in  one  sense.  A 
great  deal  of  work  is  then  piled  on  my  hands, 
and  many  of  these  letters  have  gone  astray 
and  have  never  been  acknowledged.  Lastima ! 

"I  am  glad  to  learn  that  you  were  along 
when  the  soldiers  made  that  march  from 
Riley  in  1905.  I  remember  the  newspaper 
account  of  it.  I  wish  the  Plains  could  have 
remained  as  they  were  when  I  was  a  'kid.'  I 
hope  you  passed  through  the  least  civilized 
section  of  it.  I  went  down  to  Oklahoma  be 
fore  leaving  the  States  to  take  a  last  look.  I 
cannot  put  into  words  the  feeling  of  remorse 
that  rose  within  me  at  the  things  I  saw.  The 
whole  region  was  disfigured  with  a  most  re 
pelling  ugliness — windmills,  oil  wells,  wire 
fences.  Go  to  so  and  so  for  drugs,  go  to  an- 

[200] 


DANGERS 

other  for  groceries,  and  so  on.  The  cowboy 
and  the  frontiersman  were  gone.  The  Indians 
were  in  overalls  and  looked  like  'bums/  The 
picturesque  costumes,  the  wigwams,  horse 
men,  were  things  of  the  past.  The  virgin 
prairies  were  no  more.  And  now  they  say 
that  the  place  is  a  state!  Nevertheless  you 
saw  the  stars  that  I  used  to  see.  Did  you  ever 
behold  clearer  moonlight  nights  anywhere 
else?  Did  you  hear  the  lone  cry  of  the  wolf 
and  the  yelp  of  the  coyote?  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  the  long  horn  and  the  old  time 
punchers.  The  present  would-be  punchers 
are  of  a  different  build. 

"I  would  write  a  little  longer,  but  I  must 
stop  to  do  other  letters.  I've  a  messenger 
going  to  the  Cristiano  towns  and  I  want  him 
to  take  the  mail.  I  thank  you  for  your  letter, 
Marlborough.  Don't  let  it  be  the  last.  Pass 
a  kind  word  along  to  any  of  our  old  friends 
we  have  and  tell  them  howdy.  And  may  the 
Lord  be  merciful  to  your  sinful  soul,  and  bring 
you  safe  to  Manila,  where  we  can  open  a  cool 
bottle  and  another  in  memory  of  other  days 
and  of  friends  5,000  miles  or  more  away. 
"Yours  very  sincerely, 
"WILLIAM  JONES." 

[201] 


XVII 

THE   LAST   DAY 

BALSAS — bamboo  rafts — were  needed  to 
bring  Dr.  Jones  and  his  ethnologic  freight 
down  river  to  the  friendly  huts  at  Dumubatu 
and  the  Cristiano  town  of  Echague.  Two 
hamlets,  Panipagan  and  Kagadyangan,  had 
promised  and  failed  to  bring  these  balsas,  had 
promised  again  and  failed  again,  until  even 
the  doctor's  patience  had  been  taxed.  At 
last,  on  the  evening  of  March  28,  1909,  he 
received  a  fresh  promise  that  the  rafts  would 
be  ready,  and  an  appointment  to  meet  their 
polers  at  Pung-gu  landing,  above  the  rapids 
of  that  name. 

Morning  broke  darkly  on  March  29th,  with 
a  drizzle  of  rain.  By  ten  o'clock,  however, 
out  came  the  sun  to  set  the  river  and  the 
green  jungle  shining.  Dr.  Jones  wrote  the 
final  entry  in  his  journal,  and  put  off  from 
Panipagan,  where  he  had  spent  a  troubled 
night,  to  paddle  up  the  two  miles  of  broken 
water  to  the  rendezvous.  With  him  went  his 
faithful  boy  Romano,  and  a  Dumubatu  man 
as  boatman,  a  trusty  fellow  named  Gonuat, 
[202] 


THE    LAST    DAY 

or  Ganwat.  Romano  was  frightened.  He 
afterward  said  that  his  master  had  for  some 
time  slept  badly.  The  very  boat  they  sat  in 
was  of  ill  omen, — a  banquilla  borrowed  from 
one  Pascual  Batag,  a  trader  whom  people 
dreaded  because,  it  was  said,  he  could  poison 
by  a  touch.  The  time  of  year  was  an  uneasy 
time:  the  spring,  when  cutters  of  bamboo 
distrust  the  jungle,  when  the  head-hunting 
fever  sends  each  ambitious  lover  abroad  for 
a  trophy.  The  fear  was  not  yet  dead  that 
cholera  might  come  upstream;  and  the  last 
words  the  doctor  wrote  in  his  journal  describe 
an  enigmatic  barrier — bamboo  poles  and 
shaved  bejuco  vines  festooned  across  the 
river — to  ward  off,  it  would  seem,  the  ap 
proach  of  deadly  sickness  from  below. 

About  noon,  the  travellers  reached  the  ap 
pointed  place  by  Pung-gu  rapids.  Here  the 
Cagayan  runs  through  a  narrow  gorge  of 
grayish  rock,  which  in  the  tropic  sun  glares 
white.  The  river  itself,  at  this  season  a  fast, 
deep,  smooth,  foreboding  body  of  water, 
beautifully  blue,  passes  between  clustered 
boulders  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  a 
small  crescent  beach  of  gray  sand,  towered 
above  and  cut  off  by  a  pointed  crag  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  feet  high.  This  crag  stands 

[203] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

like  a  huge  flat-iron  set  up  on  its  heel.  Boul 
ders,  piled  ashore  by  many  a  freshet,  flank  its 
base  up-stream;  boulders  and  sharp  kogon 
thicket,  down-stream;  so  that  the  gray  sand 
beach  has  little  or  no  exit  but  by  the  hurrying 
river.  One  who  visited  the  place  afterwards,* 
observed  that  its  isolation  made  it  an  almost 
perfect  trap. 

In  company  with  Dr.  Jones,  his  boy  Ro 
mano,  and  the  honest  Gonuat,  came  three 
unwilling  natives, — Maging,  Dinampul,  and 
old  Takadan,  the  Kapunwan  or  captain  from 
one  of  the  dilatory  villages.  What  then 
troubled  the  minds  of  these  three,  we  can 
never  know;  or  what  words  had  passed  be 
tween  them  and  a  certain  Tolan,  a  messenger 
who  had  run  off  through  rain  and  gathering 
darkness,  the  night  before.  The  party  landed 
below  the  flat-iron  rock,  and  awaited  the  com 
ing  of  the  rafts.  Only  four  came.  The  num 
ber  was  in  itself  a  flagrant  broken  promise,  like 
many  foregoing  promises.  On  the  rafts  or 
with  them  came  more  than  twenty  savages, 
each  bearing  shield  and  spear,  bow  and  ar 
rows,  the  itan  or  head-taking  bolo. 

A  little  tree  grew,  if  it  does  not  stand  till 

*  Dr.  S.  C.  Simms,  who  ascended  the  Cagayan  and  brought  back 
Dr.  Jones's  collection  to  this  country. 

[204] 


THE    LAST    DAY 

this  day,  on  the  beach  at  Pung-gu.  Near  this 
tree  the  assembled  Ilongots  built  a  fire  and 
cooked  rice  and  fish.  Dr.  Jones  ate  heartily, 
with  the  same  good  appetite  as  of  old.  Gonuat 
the  boatman  did  likewise.  But  young  Ro 
mano  Dumaliang  could  not  eat,  though 
pressed  with  invitations.  "I  felt  something 
was  wrong/'  he  said  afterward.  "I  did  not 
know  why  I  was  suspicious,  but  my  heart  was 
fluttering."  Instinct,  a  sense  of  evil  round 
about,  whatever  it  was  that  oppressed  him 
in  the  hot  noon  air  between  crag  and  river, 
Romano  could  not  eat. 

"I  said  to  the  doctor:  'Let  us  go  now,  and 
let  the  Ilongots  come  afterwards  with  the 
balsas/ 

"The  doctor  replied:  'No.  Why  do  you 
want  to  go  now?  If  we  go  now  they  will  not 
come  with  the  balsas.  So  we  will  wait  until 
they  prepare  the  balsas/  ! 

The  mid-day  meal  was  finished.  Most  of 
the  company  squatted  on  the  beach,  near 
their  weapons.  Romano  and  Gonuat  retired 
to  the  poisoner's  banquilla,  which  waited  at 
the  water's  edge.  Dr.  Jones  remained  to  con 
sult,  laughing  while  he  talked,  with  the  aged 
captain  Takadan.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the 
old  man's  shoulder,  bidding  him  come  down 

[205] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

in  the  banquilla  as  far  as  Dumubatu,  where 
he  should  receive  gifts  whenever  the  promised 
boats  arrived. 

There  was  in  this  crowd  of  brown  men  a 
fellow  named  Palidat,  whom  Jones  had  cured 
of  a  sickness,  "a  man,"  says  Romano,  "whom 
the  doctor  considered  his  good  friend  and  to 
whom  he  had  given  many  presents,"  a  man 
who  had  won  renown  by  killing  the  mother 
of  an  enemy.  This  Palidat  drew  near  while 
Dr.  Jones  and  old  Takadan  were  speaking. 
He  patted  the  doctor  on  the  shoulder,  and 
smiled. 

"We  shall  bring  more  balsas  to-morrow," 
said  he;  and  at  the  same  instant,  reaching 
swiftly,  drew  his  bolo  and  struck  for  the  white 
man's  neck. 

The  blow  must  have  come  like  lightning 
out  of  that  clear  noon.  Even  so,  Jones 
dodged  quickly  enough  to  catch  it  across  his 
forehead.  Dazed,  blind  with  rushing  blood, 
he  sprang  back  toward  the  river,  and  fumbled 
behind  him  for  the  Luger  pistol.  Lives  have 
hung  on  trifles  before  now,  but  no  braver  life 
or  kinder  heart  ever  hung  upon  a  button. 
The  button  of  the  holster  flap  was  fastened. 
While  Jones  tugged  it  loose,  the  squatting 
cowards  jumped  up  and  rushed  at  him, 
[2061 


THE    LAST    DAY 

twenty  and  more  to  one.  In  the  press,  a 
certain  Yapogo  sliced  him  across  the  right 
arm.  Another  sturdy  brute,  Gacad  by  name, 
speared  him  below  the  heart,  dealing  a  mortal 
blow  just  as  the  doctor  drew  his  weapon. 
Maging  also,  his  fellow  traveller  of  that  morn 
ing,  had  thrust  the  point  of  a  spear  butt 
through  the  wounded  arm.  Jones,  barely 
able  to  stand,  began  firing,  but  could  neither 
see  nor  swing  revolver.  The  Ilongots  sprang 
apart,  so  that  the  eleven  bullets  flew  harmless 
among  them. 

Meanwhile — to  their  everlasting  honor — 
out  from  the  banquilla  tumbled  boatman  and 
servant,  vainly  attempting  a  rescue.  Gonuat 
drew  his  bolo,  fought,  was  overpowered,  and 
flung  back,  striking  his  neck  so  violently  on 
the  gunwale  that  he  remained  half  stunned 
throughout  the  rest  of  that  day.  Romano 
Dumaliang,  the  terrified  youth  of  seventeen 
years,  clutched  a  bolo  blade  in  his  naked 
hand,  grappled  with  the  tall  Maging,  and 
while  wrestling  in  the  water,  got  a  spear 
through  his  hip.  Between  them,  these  two 
faithful  servants  dragged  their  master  into 
the  boat,  which  they  pushed  off  from  shore. 
The  Ilongots  ran,  flinging  spears  after  them. 
Dr.  Jones  contrived  to  put  another  clip  of 
[207] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

cartridges  into  his  revolver,  and  gave  it  to 
Romano,  who  fired  with  his  hand  bleeding, 
shot  Yapogo  dead  through  the  head,  and  sent 
all  the  others  diving  into  the  kogon  grass  or 
the  river.  Some  ran  along  the  heights  and 
sent  down  poisoned  arrows.  As  soon  as 
Pung-gu  rapids  caught  the  boat,  the  fight 
was  over. 

The  ill-fated  banquilla  shot  down-stream, 
bearing  three  almost  senseless  men.  The 
time  of  day  was  somewhere  after  two  o'clock. 
Dr.  Jones,  with  death  upon  him,  cared  first 
for  his  bleeding  servant,  Romano,  and  bound 
up  the  boy's  wounds.  As  for  himself,  he  said 
that  he  should  not  die,  but  conjured  Romano 
to  steer  well  through  the  many  rapids,  lest 
the  dug-out  strike  a  water-level  rock  and 
leave  them  a  prey  to  crocodiles.  Later,  as  they 
sped  down  the  deep  canons,  and  as  the  doctor 
felt  his  strength  to  fail  with  the  failing  light, 
he  gave  Romano  his  watch  as  a  parting  gift, 
explained  how  all  his  papers  and  collections 
should  be  cared  for  and  sent  down  to  Echague. 
By  what  account  we  possess,  the  doctor  ap 
pears  to  have  suffered  little  pain.  At  any 
rate,  he  made  no  mention  of  suffering.  In 
deep  twilight  the  boat  reached  Dumubatu. 
Romano,  following  orders,  went  up  among  the 

[208] 


THE    LAST    DAY 

hovels  and  called  the  people,  who  came  down 
to  the  shore  and  set  a  guard  roundabout;  for 
the  doctor's  only  fear  had  been  that  those 
Ilongots  up-river  might  descend  and  take  his 
head. 

About  an  hour  later,  Romano  put  some 
question  to  his  master,  who  lay  still  in  the 
boat.  He  received  no  answer.  Jones  had 
quietly  closed  his  eyes  forever,  while  the 
great  stream  ran  silent  underneath  him,  and 
tropic  stars  burned  overhead. 

The  guard  of  savages  wept  bitterly  upon 
the  shore 


209] 


XVIII 

CONCLUSION 

THE  body  of  William  Jones  was  rafted  down 
upon  a  balsa  to  Echague.  There,  on  Thurs 
day  evening,  April  1st,  1909,  it  was  buried 
in  the  Municipal  Cemetery,  two  lonely  Ameri 
cans  reading  over  the  grave  those  words  con 
cerning  man  that  is  born  of  woman. 

All  up  and  down  the  wilds  of  the  Cagayan 
River — now  less  wild  for  his  presence  there — 
remain  the  signs  and  traces  of  our  friend. 
Stilted  booths  which  before  held  nothing  but 
deer  skulls  and  hog  bones,  now  contain  what 
is  left  of  his  free-handed  giving, — ornaments, 
cloth,  metal,  tools,  and  whatever  else  im 
providence  could  not  consume.  Tamsi  has 
dogs  named  Dona,  after  his  famous  hound. 
Panipagan  and  Alikod  now  call  their  babies 
Lomano,  honoring  the  young  Romano  who 
caught  a  bare  blade  in  his  bare  hand.  A 
Governor-General  of  the  Islands  wrote: — "Dr. 
Jones  took  the  chance  that  you  and  I  know  it 
is  necessary  to  take  in  performing  such  work 
[210] 


CONCLUSION 

as  he  was  doing,  and  lost!  It  seems  like  the 
irony  of  fate  that  he  should  have  been  made 
away  with  by  Ilongots  after  he  had  done  so 
much  to  help  and  protect  them.  Such  re 
cent  legislative  and  administrative  measures  as 
have  been  adopted,  calculated  to  better  their 
condition,  were  based  directly  on  the  informa 
tion  which  I  received  from  him.  In  fact, 
when  I  first  heard  of  his  death  and  learned 
that  it  was  ascribed  to  Ilongots  .  .  .  with 
whom  I  knew  that  he  had  lived  on  friendly 
terms,  the  idea  immediately  occurred  to  me 
that  the  real  murderers  might  not  improbably 
be  the  Christian  natives  whose  abuse  of  the 
wild  people  he  had  reported."  It  was  their 
benefactor  whom  these  people  slew,  without 
reason  or  motive,  as  boys  might  kill  a  squirrel. 

Enough  has  been  said.  It  is  not  the  busi 
ness  of  this  narrative  to  tell  how  Dr.  Jones's 
murderers  were  captured,  tried  and  sentenced 
to  death  by  the  Court  of  First  Instance,  given 
a  foolish  clemency  by  the  Supreme  Court  of 
the  Islands,  and  allowed  by  their  native  con 
stabulary  guard  to  escape.  Dr.  Jones  asked 
the  government  for  nothing,  but  went  forward 
by  himself,  and  gave  his  service  like  a  good 
American. 

Nor  does  this  book  care  to  praise  a  man  who 
[211] 


WILLIAM    JONES 

never  looked  for  praise.  His  record  speaks. 
Jones  would  have  it  so,  and  rest  content  to  be 
remembered  by  a  few.  He  lived  fearless  and 
upright,  in  obedience  to  the  Great  Mystery. 

"The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once." 


WRITINGS  OF  WILLIAM  JONES 

EPISODES  IN  THE  CULTURE-HERO  MYTH  OF  THE 
SAUKS  AND  FOXES,  The  Journal  of  American 
Folk-Lore,  Vol.  XIV,  Oct.-Dec.  1901. 

SOME  PRINCIPLES  OF  ALGONQUIAN  WORD-FORMATION, 
American  Anthropologist,  New  Series,  Vol.  6, 
No.  3,  Supplement  1904.  (This  was  the  thesis 
written  for  doctor's  degree.) 

THE  ALGONKIN  MANITOU,  The  Journal  of  American 
Folk-Lore,  Vol.  XVIII,  July-Sept.,  1905. 

CENTRAL  ALGONQUIN,  Archaeological  Report,  Toronto, 
Canada,  1905. 

AN  ALGONQUIN  SYLLABARY,  Boas  Anniversary  Volume 
(New  York,  G.  E.  Stechert),  1906,  pp.  88-93. 

MORTUARY  OBSERVANCES  AND  THE  ADOPTION  RITES 
OF  THE  ALGONQUIN  FOXES  OF  IOWA,  Congre*s  In 
ternational  des  Americanists,  Quebec,  1907. 

Fox  TEXTS,  Publications  of  the  American  Ethnologi 
cal  Society,  Vol.  I,  1907. 

NOTES  ON  THE  Fox  INDIANS,  The  Journal  of  American 
Folk-Lore,  April-June,  1911. 

ALGONQUIAN  (Fox),  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  SKETCH,  Hand 
book  of  American  Indian  Languages  [Bulletin  40, 
Part  I,  of  Bureau  of  American  Ethnology  (Boas), 
pp.  735-874],  1911. 


INTERUBRARY  LOR1 
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